L'ascesa di Primo
by silversummerwords
Summary: He is known for his achievements, his strength, his creation of a vigilante group to protect the weak. But you do not actually know him. This is the story of Vongola Primo. This is the story of Giotto. Like you have never known before.
1. Chapter 1: Break of Dawn

**Title:** L'ascesa di Primo (The Rise of Primo)

 **Genre:** Action, Drama, Fantasy, Friendship, Historical, Shounen, Supernatural

 **Sypnosis:** _In a small town in Italy, a foundling who has the heart of a sky will find his desire to protect to be at odds with the ugly side of humanity. Follow his journey as he finds like-minded individuals who will fight alongside him, and create a vigilante group to protect the weak. This is the story of Vongola Primo. This is the story of Giotto._

 **Note:** No pairings, and lots of OCs

* * *

Break of Dawn

 _Capo di tutti capi_

This is what defines the boss of Vongola, the largest, strongest and most respected _famiglia_ in all of Italy. Each boss holds immeasurable power, and each boss represents the sky that accepts all. The _famiglia_ 's true purpose, while lost through the ages, was never truly forgotten. For it is that very purpose that had become its very essence, its very reason for existence.

And it all started with one river canal along the streets of a small Sicilian town, its dark and murky waters revealing nothing within its depths. The rocky embankments were lifeless, rigid in their purpose as they towered over the river, like a captive device, enclosing onto the waters.

It was deep into the night, the dimming street lights silently lighting the tenebrous river. Not a soul roamed the area, and the lonely waters reflected it.

Then there it came bobbing down the waters; a woven basket, tattered and on the verge of breakage. It rocked ever so slightly, the tiny sign of life wrapped within its embrace unknowing of the fearsome waters that threatened to sink and devour it.

It was tragically common to witness young women along the streets of Italy, crippled by poverty and desperation, to throw away their only blood and burden. That goes to the same for this tiny one, who was abandoned, out of circumstances. The little bundle was very much alive. Yet this fragile existence was barely keeping itself afloat, small hands helplessly and innocently reaching out towards the air. Perhaps it was aware that the end was near. No cries were heard from the living being, and the river was deafeningly quiet.

Suddenly, incessant barks echoed down the river and shouts of a man rang across the streets. A frazzled dog with thin, sinewy legs, gray fur and blinded in one eye, came tumbling down the steps of the bank, into the water. It paddled frantically towards the basket, its toothless mouth clamping down onto the edge of it.

"Aberto, come back here!" A man called out from above the river. The dog complied and was soon reunited with his worried master.

He was a stocky man, muscular and had a full head of dark brown hair. His leather boots were worn out, and his soles were sore from running after his dog. He knew Aberto liked to run, but today seemed to be an especially hyperactive day for the canine.

"Bad boy, Aberto, bad boy!" The man scolded, and the dog whimpered softly before it set the basket down onto the ground and nudged at it. The man then stopped short, bright blue eyes landing upon the little thing swaddled in blankets in the basket. He squatted down, receiving the little basket gently and carefully with both hands. Peering inside, he was greeted by the tiny hands of the being wrapped within. An innocent chuckle emerged, and the man, who we shall know as Lorenzo Adelardi, widened his eyes in surprise.

A tiny _ragazzino_ with a warm pair of amber orange eyes peeked up at the stranger. And he was tiny indeed. With a tuft of blonde hair above his head, he was almost the size of Lorenzo's head, which was not quite large in the first place. His soft, delicate hands flailed about, brushing past Lorenzo's large nose and mustache, his gleeful laughter filling up the empty streets of the town.

Lorenzo looked at the boy lovingly and pitiably, wondering what would have happened to this _bambino_ if Aberto had not barked madly and jumped into the waters. He proudly patted his one-eyed dog, who looked as proud as he was. "Good boy, Aberto, good boy!" He praised.

Lorenzo then eagerly stood up and started running, his urgent footsteps erupting down the street, Aberto the one-eyed greyhound following closely behind.

His excitement was to be expected. Lorenzo was married to a wife too sickly to give birth, and he held little hope to ever raise a child or to be a father. He did not quite process the thought of picking up this orphan from the river, nor the thought of bringing this _bambino_ home.

"Camilla," he shouted as he burst through the bedroom door. "Camilla, look who I found!"

The wife, a pale yet gorgeous lady, sat up on the bed, alarmed by her husband's sudden declaration. She was frail-looking, her once silky blonde hair had long lost its sheen. Her youth was hidden beneath a diseased body, yet her lively, gray eyes stared straight at her spouse as she asked affectionately, "Whatever's the matter, Lo?"

"A _bambino_ , my dear," Lorenzo said, as he enthusiastically went towards his wife with the basket. "A _ragazzino_."

Camilla's eyes widened the moment the _bambino_ was unveiled before her. Her eyes turned wet in disbelief, and she cradled the little bundle in her arms, cooing at the boy.

"How, Lo?"

"This poor one was left in the river."

"The river?" She cried out, aghast. "How could anyone abandon such a darling?"

The frown sitting between her brows creased her porcelain-like face, and Lorenzo placed a hand on hers while shaking his head. "But we can take him in," he said. "We can raise him. You his _mamma_ , I his _papà_."

"Let's," She agreed, her eyes glancing at the _bambino_ who stared up at her with his warm, orange orbs. Lorenzo then realized that he never once cried, and he thought of how peaceful this little thing had been all this time. The little _bambino_ , so in tune with everything else, was a bright, warm existence that filled up the whole house and their hearts in mere seconds.

"Giotto," He whispered just loud enough for Camilla and Aberto, and most importantly, the bambino to hear.

"A pledge of peace." Camilla nodded. "A fine name, Lo."

Her pale hands tenderly caressed the blonde locks of the _ragazzino_ , and he replied with a satisfied yawn, falling asleep, unaware of his beginnings, and he will grow up to know Camilla as his _mamma_ and Lorenzo as his _papà_. And outside of the window of the house, the sun emerged, the light slowly flooding the town, signaling the breaking of dawn.

* * *

In the small town of Leggero, news of the _bambino_ spread like wildfire. The Adelardis had always been a friendly couple, popular among the townsfolk, and the people around them were glad that there was a little human to join the duo.

However, while popular, the couple was also a hot topic among the townsfolk for being an odd couple.

Lorenzo was one of the more able-bodied men in the town. He had firm muscles, a solid chest, and well-trained reflexes to call himself one of the best fighters anyone could find in Sicily. He worked as a porter, lugging and carrying anything from fresh produce to barrels of wine. The pay wasn't much, but it was enough for the man. He was rather dashing himself, and with his kind and generous nature, he could have captured the heart of any woman he so desired.

Yet he chose to be with Camilla, a well-known songstress. She was a fallen nightingale and a flower untouched by none. Attacked by an ill-fated disease that damaged her vocal cords, her body became wracked with sickness, her fertility reduced to none. She was incapable of work and domestic chores, and would have wasted away as a pitied damsel, had not her fiery passion for life drove her to become a teacher for the scraggly, illiterate children of Leggero.

The union of the unlikely two prompted both disrespect and respect, and some questioned if they would be able to raise an unknown _bambino_ , not of their own. Contrary to their expectations, Giotto was raised with much love and care, with education unlike any other, and he carried the generosity of his _papà_ , the passion of his _mamma_ , and the kindness of both. Giotto was by no means, like any of the other boys in Leggero. He was intelligent, soft-spoken, and his eyes possessed a sort of foresight for something. Lorenzo and Camilla noticed his talent and charisma, and while others denied it, they were proud of their son nonetheless. In just four years, the boy had grown wonderfully. He had a head of spiky soft blonde hair, a substantial bit of fringe hanging down on his forehead, a healthy glow on his small face, and warm, vast amber orange eyes that accentuated his charm.

It was soon the _ragazzo's_ fifth (or that was what the couple decided it to be) birthday, and Lorenzo was determined to teach the boy how to fight. He believed that fighting was a crucial survival skill in Italy, and he was right. The town, while peaceful and harmonious on the surface, hidden alleyways where crime abounded. Evil things lurked in the darkness, and Lorenzo knew he had to raise a child who was able to protect himself.

"What are we doing today, _papà_?" The young blond asked curiously, his warm, orange eyes looking around the spacious path. The pink pavement reflected the sun's glaring rays, and Giotto soon noticed his _padre_ standing before him with an intimidating stance.

"I'm teaching you how to fight, Giotto," Lorenzo answered. "It's my birthday gift to you."

Giotto understood Lorenzo's intentions, and he cheerily thanked his _padre_. Lorenzo then sent in a weak punch towards the _ragazzo_ to commence his lesson.

But the punch was dodged by none other than Giotto himself. Lorenzo proceeded to send in another punch, thinking that the first was a fluke, yet the second was similarly dodged. He tried again, with more speed this time, but Giotto avoided it with minimal effort. Lorenzo blinked his eyes in incredulity, and he lost his fighting stance as he gazed at his son, puzzled.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"How did you know where I was going to hit?"

"I just did," Giotto answered matter-of-factly, puzzling Lorenzo even further. The porter soon gave up on asking the _ragazzo_ further, and all he did was to proceed with his lesson, teaching his son how to fight without a weapon.

And in the back of his mind, he was filled with excitement and worry at the thought of his son's future.

* * *

Giotto loved the town. It had this sacred air of peace and beauty that was calmative to the mind, and he breathed every single moment of it. He adored the rocky pavements, the bumpy, washed-out walls that emanated mystery and the palpitating heartbeat of the town. He appreciated the warmth the townsfolk would provide to the town, and the daily greetings he'll hear every morning. He liked how everything and everyone was so carefree in this small town, each and every one of them living in peace and comfort.

But he hated it at the same time. Leggero was just like what his _padre_ had told him. When there is light, there is darkness. Especially in the alleyways. He hated how dark it was, and he was afraid of what lies within it. His _mamma_ told him to avoid it, and he did. Occasionally, he saw tiny beady eyes gazing at him, snickering at him in the darkness, in the narrow gap of the alleys. His nose would come into contact with the putrid smell of rotten meat, and the iron stench of blood. He would hear the pounding of muscle against bone, the explosion of gunshots, and he would run whenever he heard it.

It had been six weeks after Giotto started learning how to fight, and his _papà_ told him that he was as competent as boys five years older than him, and it seemed to be a great big deal to his _padre_. But he was also told to never brag to others by his _pap_ _à_ , for humility lets one go far in the streets of Italy. Up till now, he never had the chance to use his skills, for he never actively sought for any chances. He'll stay safe, and continue to bask in the light of the town.

And today was the same. He trod the pavements in a sinless manner, tip-toeing, then occasionally breaking into a run. His _mamma,_ after teaching him a lesson on mathematics, had allowed him to do whatever he wanted outside, without failing to remind him to avoid the alleys. He said a cheerful good evening to the local barber _signor_ Barbieri, then received sweets from _signora_ Fiore, and made his way to his favorite part of the town. He was close to the darkest of alleys, or that was what his _mamma_ told him. In the back of his mind, he told himself to ignore the stares, the snickers, the foul odor, the gunshots.

Then he heard it.

A helpless cry of a child reverberating from down within, bouncing off the walls, and amplifying itself. He heard it so cleanly, and the five-year-old's legs were numb, his orange eyes turning to look down the treacherous stairs that led into the obscure alley. It screamed danger, and Giotto was absolutely sure that he would be plunging into darkness the moment he descended down the steps.

He tentatively walked down to the halfway point of the stairs, right at where the light transcends into darkness. He will turn back, he told himself. He will turn back.

The same whimper rang out, and before he himself knew it, Giotto had already sped down the stairs, into the darkness that he was so afraid of, into the unknown that he never thought he would pick up the courage to walk into.

He was so scared, so scared. And he repeated the thought in his mind again and again. His _mamma_ warned him to never go into the alleys, and he was disobeying her. His legs were shaking, but they still brought him into the darkness, towards the sound that had set him going.

Around the corner, he then witnessed it. A boy, no older than twelve, yelling at the defenseless child leaning against the wall. His feet and fists pounded at the tiny body ruthlessly without giving his victim any time to breathe. The bully had a wide, sadistic grin on his face, his stony-hearted actions merely for his own pleasure.

"Hey!"

The twelve-year-old boy stopped, his violet eyes turning to look at Giotto. Giotto could feel his blood turning cold. He was facing a person other than his _pap_ _à_ for the first time, and his fear was increasing, his heart was telling him to either fight or fly.

"Can't you see I'm busy, _idiota_?" The older boy snarled. "Or do you want to join Rossi over here?"

Giotto flinched, and he glanced at the small boy curled into a ball, barely visible in the shadows. He glared at the older boy, deciding that he will choose to fight. His _pap_ _à_ said he was taught to fight to protect himself, and this will be the first time he will fight.

Not to protect himself, but to protect that boy in the shadows.

The older boy was charging towards him now, and he could sense clearly where he was going to hit. He dodged nimbly, and he punched the bully at where his _pap_ _à_ taught him with all his might. The boy backstepped, rolling over as he yowled in pain.

"You'll remember this!" The older boy shouted as he picked up himself, shaken. He then ran away, helter-skelter, down the pebbled alley, his figure vanishing into the darkness. Giotto huffed, his knuckles red, and he turned around, reaching a hand towards the bullied kid who came out from the shadows. The other boy had a full head of red hair and a pair of piercing crimson eyes. His face was battered with bruises, limbs turning blue and purple, making him a sorry sight to look at. The boy's wounds conveyed the pain he must have felt while he was mercilessly attacked by the bully, and Giotto could not help but to frown visibly. Meanwhile, the boy shot Giotto's outstretched hand a glare.

"Don't need," the boy murmured as he swatted it away. He then stood up, albeit unstable, and when he reached his full height, Giotto noticed that the boy was as tall as he was.

"Thanks," the boy said under his breath hesitantly, and he patted away the dust on his pants. Giotto, surprised at this sudden expression of gratitude, broke into a grin. He then asked, "What's your name?"

The boy stared at Giotto for a moment.

"Guglielmo." He finally said.

"That's a hard name to pronounce," Giotto remarked. "I'm Giotto."

"I know who you are," The red-haired kid said. "You're that _trovatello_."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Giotto inquired.

"I don't know, my _zio_ always calls you that."

"Who's your _zio_?"

"That man who drinks and shouts every night."

"He's nasty."

"I know," he sighed. "My whole family is."

Giotto pursed his lips, not knowing how to continue the conversation until he saw the sun dipping down into the horizon.

"Wanna come to my house to eat?" He asked. "My _mamma_ and _papà_ will be happy to have you eat with us."

"I can't," The kid answered. "My _madre_ will hit me if I don't eat with her tonight."

"Why would she hit you?"

"She hates me."

"Why would she hate you?"

"I don't know."

"Come to eat with us then," Giotto said again. "My _mamma_ and _papà_ won't hate you."

"I told you I can't." The boy said with a click of his tongue. "Leave me alone."

He took off, leaving behind Giotto in the dust, the young boy not able to call out to the boy. He stood there, watching the sun setting, diving deep into the edges of the alley. His bright, orange eyes remained wide open in the face of the sun's piercing rays. Giotto let out a barely audible gasp, his eyes going wider as he watched Guglielmo disappearing into the sun's embrace.

"A storm's coming."

* * *

" _Papà_ , what's a _trovatello_?"

Lorenzo froze, his hand hovering in mid-air with his fork. Camilla, likewise, turned to look at the boy, her face filled with confoundment. It was your everyday dinner, and the boy had suddenly popped the question in the middle of it.

"Where'd you hear that from?" Camilla asked.

"G's _zio_ called me that," Giotto replied honestly. "He called me a _trovatello_."

"Who's G?"

"Someone... I met today," Giotto answered while trying hard to not avert his eyes. "His name is hard so I shortened it. Mamma, what's a _trovatello_?" He persisted the question, earning a conflicted madre who had no qualms on how she should answer her son.

"Darling," She began.

"It's something bad, isn't it?" Giotto interjected. "It sounds nasty."

Camilla words fell short, and her eyes divulged a contorted look of pain, of reluctance. She turned to Lorenzo, who was still stoned in his seat for the past half a minute.

"Darling, you don't have to worry about it."

" _Mamma_?"

"Camilla, tell him," Lorenzo said. "We can't hide it forever."

"Lo!" Camilla gasped.

"We can't ever shut those _chiacchierone_." Lorenzo hissed, and Giotto was stunned, for he had never seen his _padre_ looking so furious before.

" _Papà_?" Giotto took up the courage to ask, but his _padre_ did not say anything, while Camilla inched closer towards the _ragazzino_.

"Giotto, my darling." She said in a pure, kind voice. " _Trovatello_ means a foundling."

"A foundling?"

"Yes," Camilla took in a deep breath. "It means that you are an orphan. You're not our biological son."

"What is biological?" The five-year-old asked, his head tilting to one side, warm, orange eyes brimming with curiosity.

"We," Camilla continued with a strained voice. "Are not your real _mamma_ and _papà_."

The house was soon submerged into a sea of silence and foreboding, Lorenzo laying his head on his hands, Camilla pursing her lips. Both of them waited for their son's reaction and his denial.

"I know."

His voice was calm, cloudless, like that of the blue horizon, and his parents looked at him with all sorts of emotions on their faces. The _r_ _agazzo_ claimed that he knew, and both adults stared at the boy, trying to find a hint of a lie in his words, perhaps to hide his denial. Yet all they found, was a quiet, peaceful smile that revealed the truth.

"How did you, no, when did you know?" Lorenzo almost shouted, but he kept his cool and his tone as even as he could.

"I just knew," Giotto said in return. "I knew it ever since I could remember."

And there it was, that same answer the boy often gave. He just knew. It sounded so simple yet so convoluted at the same time, and the Adelardi couple instantly lost all words to say. Camilla started sobbing, her little hiccups coming out in bits as tears flooded her cheeks. Lorenzo rested a careful hand on her back, rubbing it, trying to ease her pain. Extreme emotions were bad for her health.

" _Mamma_?" Giotto murmured as he climbed down his chair and approached his _madre_. "Don't cry, _mamma_."

"I'm sorry, Giotto." His _padre_ said, his head hung low.

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because..."

"Don't be sorry, _papà_. Don't be sorry."

His eyes gazed into his father's, then his mother's, and softly, kindly, he hugged his _mamma_ , then his _papà_.

"You're still my _mamma_ and _papà_ , " Giotto whispered as he tightened his hold onto his parents. "No matter what."

* * *

Camilla, while weak and sickly, was an intelligent woman. She was well-versed in various areas, from languages to the sciences, and with whatever energy she had, she did her best to pass on her knowledge to the children, and most importantly, Giotto. And the more she taught the boy, the more she realized one thing.

He was a child with potential so immense that it both frightened and delighted her.

Though he did not have the brightest of minds, he had a strange yet powerful intuition that neither Lorenzo nor herself could understand. He knew many things a child his age shouldn't be knowing. He knew whether people are good, or bad. He knew when someone is lying. And he knew that he was an abandoned child.

Even after that sorrowful yet hopeful family dinner, Giotto didn't say anything else, as if the fact that he was a foundling, the fact that his real _madre_ abandoned him, did not affect him in the slightest. He had accepted it wholeheartedly since the beginning, and it astonished her on how accepting he was.

"Giotto, darling," She called out, and the boy immediately headed towards her bedside.

"Yes, _mamma_?"

"Are you happy?"

"Yes, _mamma_. Are you?"

"Of course, _mamma_ is very happy that you are here. You know, Giotto, _mamma_ wishes for many things for you."

"What are they?"

" _Mamma_ wishes that you'll find people you can trust. _Mamma_ wishes you'll be strong. _Mamma_ wishes that you'll be a great man in the future."

"I'll do that!" The boy said enthusiastically. "I'll find people I can trust, I'll be strong, and I'll be a great man."

"Of course you will. But most importantly, _mamma_ wishes that you will have the power to protect people."

"Why?"

"Because," Camilla smiled gently. "The power to protect will make you stronger than anyone else."

Giotto paused, suddenly remembering that day when he went down the alley. That day when he first protected someone.

"Will you promise me that?"

His _madre_ lifted her pinky, and Giotto did not hold an ounce of hesitation as he hooked his madre's pinky with his own.

"I promise!"

* * *

 **Some Italian definitions (courtesy of Google Translate):**

 _Capo di tutti capi -_ Boss of all bosses

 _bambino -_ baby

 _ragazzino/ ragazzo -_ little boy/boy

 _madre -_ mother

 _padre -_ father

 _zio -_ uncle

 _chiacchierone -_ blabbermouth

 **Just to note, this story is set in a fictional town. Yes, there's no such town called Leggero in Italy. And incidentally, Leggero means "light" in Italian.**

 **Hey there, this is my first KHR fic :) KHR really defined my childhood and it is my favorite series of all time, and I do believe me writing a fic about it has been due a long time ago. I know next to nothing about Italy except it has pasta, mafia, beautiful art, and streets until I researched about it for this story. Apologies if there are some inaccuracies in the Italian words used in this story.**

 **Please do note that this story almost has none of the modern characters (aka Tsuna, the 10th gen, Reborn, etc). It is entirely on Primo and his beginnings, his journey, and how he founded the Vongola. It will also include elements of the Tri-Ni-Sette and the Arcobaleno since we all know that Primo was heavily involved with Sepira and Bermuda. Well, the manga kinda glossed over it, and I am not pleased.**

 **And that is all for the first chapter. Hope you enjoyed it, and do send in a review on which areas I can improve in the writing! :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Tempesta

Tempesta

Guglielmo Rossi is not a happy child.

He lives with his _zio_ and his _madre_ , in a melancholic house filled with bugs, dust, and gloom. His _zio_ , an alcoholic who swaggered down the streets every night screeching drunk notes, throws bottles at him every morning once he gets home. His _madre_ , a delusional woman who washes clothes for a living, screams at him every night after dinner. His _zio_ would holler at him so that he can hit him, and his _madre_ would shriek and hurt him if he doesn't come home for dinner. They are both mad, he concluded when he was three, and he would get out of the house before dawn and return before sunset to avoid them as much as possible. And he knew that in that span of time he stayed away from the house, dark dealings occurred in that devil's hut, which added to his list of reasons why he loathed the house.

He felt pain from the bruises and cuts he gets from the two mad people in the house. When one wound fades, another appears. And he was used to it. And whenever he got out of the house, he always headed for the alleys. He never mingled with anyone, and he never tried to walk on the main streets. For a child surrounded by darkness, the light was overpowering and unknown to him, and he didn't want to have anything to do with it.

Good riddance, they say.

He was unlucky every day, like today. He waited for the older boy to hit him till he was satisfied, waiting for the pain to pass, for the old bruises to fade. He cried a little from the kicks, but with no hope that anyone would come to help because, in the alleys, no one helps anyone.

"Hey!" A clear voice called out, echoing down the alley like a blast of spring wind. And he opened his eyes, trying to catch his breath, trying to hold the tears in. He noticed the light bathing down onto a child his age. Blonde hair and orange eyes, like that of a shining child. He knew who he was. His _zio_ liked to spout nonsense, and say horrible things about people, no matter who they are. And he remembered his _zio_ talking about him whenever the boy could be seen from their window. And this was the first time he saw him up close. He was a pretty thing, Guglielmo realized.

He must be dumb, the injured boy then remarked in his head. Did this boy think that he can save him? No way, he decided. He will get himself hurt, or worse, killed.

"Can't you see I'm busy, _idiota_? Or do you want to join Rossi over here?"

An _idiota._ Guglielmo concluded.

To his surprise, the older boy was crouching on the floor in the next second, groaning and shouting in pain like a slaughtered chicken, and Guglielmo watched the unbelievable scene of his bully running away from a child seven years younger.

While he was trying to comprehend what just happened, a hand reached out towards him, and he froze. He stared at the boy before him. Blonde hair, orange eyes, and a warm smile unfamiliar to him.

Bright, he lamented in his head. Too bright.

"Don't need." He breathed, and he stood up. He then glanced at the boy whose face fell, and at that instant, he felt a sort of guilt that he had never felt before.

"Thanks," He felt weird saying it. But he was obliged to do so when there was such a bright thing before him.

And when the boy grinned at his words, he felt almost scared. The light was inching closer towards him, and it unnerved him. Get away, he wanted to scream, but the shining child opened his mouth and simply asked, "What is your name?"

He stared at him, unable to react for a while.

"Guglielmo."

And again, he was obliged to do so.

"That's a hard name to pronounce," The boy said. "I'm Giotto."

Even his name is pretty, Guglielmo realized. This was a person living in the light, and even if he is now inches away from him, he knew that he was still very far out of reach. He thought he'd scare this boy with the nasty name his _zio_ always called him, and he did just that.

"I know who you are, you're that _trovatello_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Guglielmo felt stupid. He didn't know what it means, and he never bothered to find out.

"I don't know, my _zio_ calls you that."

"Who's your zio?"

"That man who drinks and shouts every night."

"He's nasty."

"I know, my whole family is."

In Guglielmo's head, he wanted to end this conversation right at this instant. He didn't want to associate himself with him. He didn't want to have anything to do with the light.

The boy was visibly disturbed by his statement, and Guglielmo was ready to leave anytime now. So long as the _trovatello_ gives up on talking to him.

"Wanna come to my house to eat? My _mamma_ and _papà_ will be happy to have you eat with us."

Guglielmo could feel his insides hurling.

"I can't, my _madre_ will hit me if I don't eat with her tonight."

Why was he still talking to him? He angrily scolded himself.

"Why would she hit you?"

"She hates me."

"Why would she hate you?"

"I don't know."

Stop it, he felt like yelling, but somehow, he couldn't.

"Come to eat with us then, my _mamma_ and _papà_ won't hate you."

Of course, you won't. He almost cried out. Of course, they won't.

"I told you I can't." Guglielmo murmured through gritted teeth and purposefully clicked his tongue. "Leave me alone."

Then he ran, not caring about the boy any longer. He had enough of his warm demeanor, his clear, vast orange eyes and his very presence.

He didn't want to have anything to do with the light.

Because he didn't deserve it.

* * *

His _zio_ was in the house when he returned. He laid on the couch, his fats assimilating into the cushion, a beer bottle in one hand. There was no food on the table, and his _madre_ was talking to herself in a corner while picking her nails.

" _Zio_ , are we eating?"

" _Vaffanculo_!" The man, with his sagging belly drooping on his lap, spat. Guglielmo flinched, and he took that as a no. He was hungry, but he knew better than to rile his zio up. He carefully went across the room, snatching a small piece of bread lying on the floor, and ran to the filthy bedroom.

He started stuffing the moldy thing into his mouth, gagging, but he was hungry. He had nothing since morning, and he needed whatever energy he had so that he can get out of here as soon as possible. Having both mad people in the house was bad news.

"Guglielmo!" His _zio_ yelled from his couch. "Guglielmo! Get me my beer!"

Barely swallowing the starch, the boy rushed out of the bedroom. His _zio_ sluggishly glared at him, his eyes commanding him to search the house for alcohol, and he did just that. But he could not find any beer. And he panicked.

" _Zio_ , there's… no beer." He said with a shaking voice.

"No beer, you say?" His _zio_ fumed, his voice increasing in volumes. "No beer?"

And Guglielmo braced himself as the man hurled the beer bottle right at him. He barely dodged it, but the glass cut him at his ankles, and he could feel the pain attacking him, the smell of blood permeating in the air.

"I'll get beer for you, _zio_. I'll go get it."

His _zio_ then grunted in approval, his body sinking deeper into the couch, and Guglielmo took this opportunity to escape. He could hear his crazed _madre_ calling for him fervently, telling him to eat dinner with her even though there was no dinner, no home, no family for him to return to.

And he ran. Down this horrid neighborhood, down the darkness, down the dead of night. He watched the night sky, where disgusting gray clouds were clumping together, swirling and whirling like his current emotions.

A storm was brewing.

He had to find beer.

"Excuse me!" He shouted, knocking on any door he could find. "Does anyone have a beer? Beer for my _zio_!"

None of the doors opened for him, and the wind was howling. The wound at his ankles opened up even more from his running, blood trickling down his calves, into his sandals.

"Excuse me!"

"Excuse me!"

"Excuse me!"

The storm exploded, unrelenting, and Guglielmo clung onto another door for dear life, the winds slapping him everywhere on his body. It hurt. It hurt so much. But he could not cry out, and all he did, was to continuously scream, "Excuse me! I need beer for my _zio_!"

And he watched the clouds spin, pouring darkness all over Leggero.

He desired dawn.

He craved for the light.

Even though he believes that he did not deserve it.

* * *

He survived.

Guglielmo, exhausted from the previous night's events, was slumped against the wall. He panted heavily, half glad that he was not killed by the storm, half worried that he still had not get his _zio_ 's beer. He did not know what time it was, and he was unsure of his location. All he knew was that he is in the dark alley where he hid last night, and he was thirsty, hungry, tired, and so, so cold. He emerged from the alley, the sun hanging high up in the sky staring down at him with piercing rays. He squinted his eyes, confused on where he was. It was not the usual street he was familiar with, and he looked left and right, anxious.

"What's a child like him doing here?"

Guglielmo looked up, watching a smug-looking man staring at him with a twisted face of contempt and disgust.

"Excuse me? Do you have a beer?" He gasped. "Beer for my _zio_?"

The man's face twisted even more, and suddenly, he felt a powerful force slamming into his gut. He was thrown off his feet, his weak body smashing into the brick wall. He could taste blood.

"Get away from me!" The man shouted with repugnance, and he walked away briskly, cursing loudly.

Guglielmo clutched his stomach, the pain pulsating throughout his whole body like an accursed clock. Stop it, he said in his head. His legs folded, and he grabbed his knees, trying to endure the pain.

"Excuse me…" He coughed. "I need a beer… A beer for my _zio_."

"Excuse me…" He sobbed.

"Excuse me…" He cried.

"G?"

The five-year-old's head lifted up slightly.

"G, are you okay?"

Blonde hair and orange eyes, like that of a shining child.

"Did your _madre_ hit you?"

Truly an _idiota_.

"You're bleeding!" Giotto said urgently, and the boy took out his handkerchief, trying to stop the bleeding from his ankles. "Hold on, I'll get _papà_ here."

He really is too bright.

Giotto got ready to stand, to go and call for his _padre_ , but Guglielmo grabbed hold of his hand, his nails digging into his skin. Giotto did not wince or whimper or anything, and merely warmly gazed at the boy, and asked, "What is it, G?"

Like the sky.

"Help me, Giotto."

* * *

Lorenzo had never once seen his son so frantic before. The boy had charged into the warehouse, panting and shouting for him, evidently to have run a great deal of distance. His coworkers tried to calm the poor boy down, who was still wheezing, still shouting for his _padre_. Lorenzo put down his load and ran straight to his son, and from his countenance, he knew instantly that something was wrong. He grabbed the _ragazzo_ 's palm, then feeling the thick, viscous liquid that was stuck onto his skin.

Blood.

"Giotto," He said firmly. "Giotto, calm down."

His son took a few deep breaths.

" _Papà_ , help…" Giotto gasped. "G's hurt."

"G? That person you met yesterday?"

"G's bleeding a lot, _papà_. We need to help him."

Lorenzo stood up, grabbing his son and putting him on his shoulders.

"Lorenzo, you still have work to do!" One of the other porters yelled.

"Cover me, Marco!"

And then he dashed off, with Giotto on his back directing the way. The _ragazzo_ was trembling, but he managed to give clear-cut instructions, making the journey quick.

" _Papà_ , right there, _papà_!" His son pointed. The porter's heart dropped the moment he laid eyes on the wounded child. He was lying on the floor, against the peeling walls of the alley, his long red hair sprawled over the dirty cobbled road. His ankles were bloodied, scratches, bruises, and cuts adorning his body, his skin frighteningly pale. Lorenzo brought his son to the ground, and as gently as he could, he turned the child over. And he felt cold sweat running down his neck when he realized that the boy was cold, his lips were blue, and his eyes were closed. Was this boy outside the whole time during the storm last night?

He pressed his ears against the child's chest.

It was beating.

"Giotto, hurry home and ask your mamma to prepare hot water and warm blankets." He said. "I'll catch up."

The _ragazzo_ nodded vigorously, and he sped off. Meanwhile, Lorenzo carried the child, who was thin and scrawny, and the porter's face paled from the weight of the child.

He had to hurry.

When he reached home, he dashed in, and Camilla was already right in the living room in her wheelchair. Brows furrowing, she pointed towards the bedroom. Lorenzo then saw his son standing guard beside the bed, stacks of blankets and a basin of hot water ready.

It was a race against time. He wrapped the boy in the blankets, slowly warming him up, and made him drink the hot water. Meanwhile, Giotto stood at the bedpost, his little hands going white from gripping the board too hard.

The color was slowly returning to the boy, and Lorenzo proceeded to wrap the boy's ankles with bandages, rubbing ointment on his bruises and cuts. It was a delicate operation, and it was after a half hour, did the man finally sat onto the ground and let out a huge sigh of relief.

"Is he okay now, _papà_?"

"Yeah," Lorenzo grinned, as he tousled his son's blonde hair. "You did a great job."

"Thank you, _papà_."

* * *

Guglielmo knew he was alive. One, he could feel pain. Two, he could feel an inexplicable warmth wrapping around him.

He opened his eyes, just to see light flooding the room he was in, and he stared at the ceiling dazedly. He had no idea where he was.

"Are you awake?" A calm, breezy voice said, prompting him to turn his head to the right. Before him, a beautiful, yet frail-looking woman was looking over him with a warm gaze, and he thought he could suffocate. Yet he didn't, and he stared at her, wordless and shocked.

"Where… am I?" He murmured.

"In my house," She said gently. "Giotto and his _padre_ saved you."

"G-Giotto?" Guglielmo stuttered. He did help him. The boy who was like the sky really did. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he found himself struggling to sit up.

"Excuse me, do you have a beer?" He uttered frantically.

"Pardon?" Camilla exclaimed, not believing what she was hearing.

"A beer for my _zio_. Please," The boy was almost begging. "He'll hit me if I don't get his beer."

Camilla felt her heart tearing apart when she watched the boy's wine-red eyes, so tired yet so desperate. How could a child, a young child like this have such an expression?

She then reached her arms out, bringing the child into an embrace. He couldn't let out a sound, as he felt the warmth of the lady, utterly puzzled and confused.

"Rest, child. Your _zio_ 's beer can wait." She said softly. "He can't hit you if you're here."

"But… But-!" Guglielmo tried to protest, trying to wriggle out of Camilla's arms.

"Shhh…"

He gasped, his trembling body slowly calming down. So this was the light, he said to himself, and at that moment, he released all his worries, all his troubles, and relaxed. Camilla let him sit up against the headboard, and it was then Guglielmo noticed that the woman was sitting in a wheelchair. She spotted him looking at her, and with a sweet smile, she said, "It doesn't hurt."

"Really?"

"I don't feel anything at all."

Guglielmo fell silent and averted his eyes.

"What's your name?"

"G-Guglielmo Rossi."

"My, no wonder Giotto said your name is hard to pronounce." She chuckled. "It's a beautiful name, Guglielmo."

The boy went stunned. It had been so long since anyone called his name so tenderly, so kindly.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this kind woman could answer his question.

"A-About G-Giotto," He stammered. "My _zio_ often calls him _trovatello_. Do you know what it means?"

His red eyes cautiously looked up at the woman, and he saw her eyes dimming, just so slightly.

"Yes, it means a foundling. Someone who has been abandoned by their parents and is discovered and cared for by others."

Guglielmo felt a lump forming in his throat.

"Is he… really?"

Camilla smiled a bittersweet smile.

"Yes."

Guglielmo only felt the lump growing bigger.

" _Mamma_!" A voice called out from outside of the bedroom. Guglielmo, from the corner of his eye, saw Giotto bounding in excitedly.

"G!" He said. "You're awake!"

"My name is Guglielmo!" He shouted, annoyed.

"It's hard to pronounce." Giotto reasoned.

He couldn't retort, and with an exasperated sigh, he said, "Do what you want."

Meanwhile, Camilla, amused by the short banter between the two, chuckled and started pushing herself out of the door. "I'll go prepare breakfast."

" _Mamma_ , I'll help," Giotto said.

"I'll manage, darling. Go and accompany Guglielmo."

And with that, she exited the bedroom, and Giotto turned his attention back to Guglielmo.

"Does it still hurt?" He asked as he stared at the bandages on Guglielmo's arms.

"No, it doesn't."

"You're lying."

Guglielmo stared at the boy, surprised.

"I'm not!" He insisted.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are!" Giotto said indignantly.

"And what proof do you have?" Guglielmo said, irritated.

"Because I know."

"You don't make any sense! Leave me alone, won't you?"

Giotto laughed, and then his warm, orange eyes met Guglielmo's piercing, wine-red ones.

"If your _madre_ or anyone else hits you, you can tell me. I'll help you."

"You don't need to," Guglielmo said.

"But I want to."

"Then do what you want." Guglielmo huffed.

Guglielmo then saw him grinning, looking silly. The lump in his throat seemed to be growing bigger since just now, and he did not feel like he could hold it in any longer.

"Giotto?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for calling you a _trovatello_."

Giotto's lips stretched into a mysteriously warm smile, and he shook his head. And Guglielmo was alarmed at how forgiving he was. Most adults he knew would never possess the maturity he had.

"You'd forgive me?" He asked, wanting to be certain.

"I forgive you," Giotto said, his face forming a radiant expression, and Guglielmo only had one thought in his mind:

He really is like the sky.

* * *

It was dark outside, not a cloud to be seen. The sky was awfully clear, and within the Adelardi house, someone was moving. The bed creaked softly as the red-haired boy slinked down, trying to stay as quiet as he could. He could hear Giotto mumbling in his sleep, and _signor_ and _signora_ Adelardi sleeping soundly. He stealthily crept out of the bedroom, and while his ankles still hurt a lot, he tolerated the pain as well as he could.

He glanced back at the family of three, and while he knew that he could choose to stay here and never go back to that repulsive house, he did not want to do so.

He didn't deserve the light.

And there was no reason why he should have any sort of relationship with Giotto any longer. His life was like a storm, and he did not want to drag anyone else into it. They don't know how scary his _zio_ can get, and he did not want them to know it.

All he needed to do now, was to find a bottle of beer.

Slowly, he rummaged the kitchen, making minimal noises and yet there was nothing he could find on the bottom cabinets. He surveyed the whole kitchen, then noticing a small glint of light at the top cupboards. He climbed carefully, his arms still sore from the bruises, and when he was standing on the countertop, he opened the cupboard, just to see a bottle of beer, untouched.

He gingerly took it out, the heavy bottle difficult for him to hold. He closed the cupboard, soundlessly, and with that, he was on the ground, beer bottle in hand, and ready to return to that hellish place.

Turning the doorknob, he swung it open, the hinges creaking loudly, and his shoulders tensed. He tentatively glanced back, and once making sure that his benefactors were still sleeping, he stepped outside of the door. He then reached out for the handle, ready to close it.

Then he made eye contact with him.

Orange eyes that seemed to know exactly what he was trying to do.

"Are you really leaving?" He said, a hint of sadness in his words.

Guglielmo stared at him, at the boy who is like the sky.

"It's none of your business, so stop barging into my life."

And with that, he swung the door shut. Running down the streets, he wondered what kind of expression Giotto would be having right now. Yet, at the same time, he knew he should stop thinking about that boy.

Since he had already decided that he shall be the lone storm that survives on its own.

He wound his way into the alleys, trying to run as fast as he could, ignoring the hungry stares of the beings lurking in the darkness. Run, he said to himself. Run.

And then he was in that neighborhood, the foreboding appearance of it intimidating him for a second. He'll brave through this, he assured himself. He'll just give the beer to his _zio_ and everything will be fine.

As he turned into the corners and approached the house, he felt his knees going numb. His _madre_ was shrieking, his _zio_ was hollering, and his bravery was going down a notch.

" _Mio figlio_!" He heard his deranged _madre_ crying out like a broken record. "Where's my son!?"

A bottle shattered, its glass pieces sending ripples of horrific noises in the night.

" _Sta 'zitto, donna_!" His _zio_ 's voice burst out. "That prick is not your son!"

Guglielmo's stopped in his tracks. He was only a short distance away from the house, and he could not move.

"No! No! Guglielmo's my son! My son!" She shrieked. "His _madre_ and _padre_ are dead, so he's my son!"

His pupils dilated, his eyes going dry.

"Crazy woman, I've never understood why the Nero _Famiglia_ would even hire you to kill the Rossi!"

His grip on the glass bottle loosened.

"I killed the Rossi, I killed the _madre_ and the _padre_ , and Guglielmo's my son!" Her voice was hoarse and fanatical. "Where is he? Where is he?"

" _Sta 'zitto, brutta stronza_! It was a fair share! I killed the _padre_ , you killed the _madre_! If you hadn't gone crazy and wanted to keep the boy, I'd have chopped him into pieces!"

The bottle shattered, the glass grazing his skin, the beer overflowing at his feet.

"Who's there?"

The house creaked, supporting the humongous weight of his _zio_ , and the shrill cry of his _madre_ spilled out of the windows. He tried to catch his breath, to control that horrible sensation running wild in his body when it dawned on him that the fat man is not his _zio_ , the demented woman is not his _madre_.

They were murderers.

His fingers wrapped around the neck of the broken glass bottle, the broken edges potent and ready to be thrust into a mass of fats and meat.

And there he was, his lumpy, bulging body ambling out of the front door, blood-shot eyes noticing the boy. Guglielmo glowered at him, his other hand firming his hold onto the bottle. His body was hot and uncontrolled, and he rammed himself, and the bottle, straight into the man's stomach. In his fervor, he tugged the bottle out and stabbed it into the man's chest. He could feel the blood spurting out, trickling down the man's layers, and he continued his attack, relentless, like that of an unyielding storm. He yelled, screamed, howled, the winds around him blowing in his favor.

The man then roared like a beast, and Guglielmo was soon knocked down onto the ground with a merciless punch. The young boy's thrusts had been weak, and the shallow cuts were not enough to hit the man's vital points.

" _Va' al diavolo_!" The savage beast cried out, ready to strike down the final blow. Guglielmo looked up, his vision blurred, watching the man's fists coming closer.

At that instant, Giotto's face came into his mind, the warmth he received from the Adelardi family burning in his heart.

"I don't want to die," He said under his breath.

* * *

 **Some Italian definitions (courtesy of Google Translate):**

 _Mio figlio -_ my son

 _Sta 'zitto -_ Shut up

 _donna_ \- woman

 _Vaffanculo/ brutta stronza/_ _Va' al diavolo_ _-_ vulgarities and nasty phrases. There's really no need for you to know what each of them means.

 **So that is all for the second chapter. I made G's background to be rather tragic and angsty, which I thought will be appropriate considering his personality (which is like Gokudera, whose backstory is tragic as well). The Nero _Famiglia_ will come in later chapters, so stay tuned!**

 **Do send in a review :)**


	3. Chapter 3: Tri-ni-Sette

Tri-ni-Sette

" _Pazza_... _donna_!"

Guglielmo gasped, his vision clearing, and he watched the scene unfolding before him. The woman's arms were locked around the man's thick neck, her incomprehensible strength causing him to drop the bottle. He howled, grappling with the lunatic, his meaty fingers trying to pull her arms away. Yet her hold tightened even further, sinking deeper into his neck, forcing onto his throat. He hacked, saliva flowing down his neck.

Guglielmo looked around, seeing his neighbors looking out of their windows, yet none of them had the intention to intervene. All of them were staring, watching it as if it was a form of entertainment. He felt his insides churning, and he took the chance to back away from the wrestling duo, his limbs still numb from the near-death experience.

"No one touches Guglielmo!" She screeched. "No one touches _mio figlio_!"

A sickening crack resounded, and Guglielmo barely suppressed a scream as the man foamed at the mouth, his whole body convulsing like a distorted doll. His neck was twisted at an ugly angle, his skin going so pale that amidst the flickering streetlights, his appearance was akin to a ghoul. The boy crawled backward, on all fours, frantic and terrified as the big, burly man known to him as a monster collapsed into a heap.

The spectators cheered, seemingly pleased with the outcome. Guglielmo then saw the woman, who emerged from behind the dead man, her hair disheveled, her bony hands reaching out towards him.

" _Mio dolce bambino_ ," she purred, her voice raspy and haunting to hear. "Come to your _mamma_."

Guglielmo's chest was constricting, his whole body unable to move. The murderer was now prowling towards him, her beady, black eyes fixated on him like a predator on a prey.

No, he shouted in his mind. Get away from me!

"Guglielmo, _mio figlio_."

He retched, rejection filling his entire body and he screamed, the loudest he had ever screamed in his whole life.

"You're not my _madre_!"

And the woman froze, unmoving for nearly a whole minute.

"I'm... not your _madre_?"

Guglielmo instantly knew something was going very, very wrong. He willed himself to move, but every fiber of his being was too numb, too afraid to move in the presence of this woman.

"If... I'm not your _madre_ , then..." She gasped, her eyes going wider and wider, her bloodlust oozing out. "I'll kill you."

She cackled, clearly going out of her mind as she dove straight towards the boy. And Guglielmo knew he was going to die. He was just stupidly sitting here on his bottom, for this woman, who killed his real _madre_ , to kill him.

A pebble was thrown at the woman's right eye.

She screeched, and before she can react, another pebble hit her in the face. She let out a whimper, dropping onto the ground, her attempts to go for the kill temporarily thwarted.

"G! Run!"

And Guglielmo, as if his body was no longer his own, defied the fear he had in his head and stood up. He was heeding the voice's command, he realized. He felt his presence, and truth to be told, Giotto was standing not far away from him, one arm reaching out towards him.

He grabbed it.

The two children ran like their lives depended on it, and Guglielmo could barely keep up with Giotto's speed, had not the sky child held onto his hand. The woman was screeching like death, and he could hear her crazed footsteps, following closely behind them.

At this rate, Guglielmo knew that she will catch up.

"Giotto-"

"Don't you ever let go of my hand, G!"

His eyes widened at his words, a foreign yet endearing warmth hugging his heart. He hated the feeling, and he yearned for it. Why? he wondered. Why does this hurt so much?

His thoughts were cut short the moment her ragged breathing breezed past his shoulder, and his nerves seemed to disconnect for a second.

She was right at their heels.

He looked straight ahead, at Giotto who never stopped. He had to let go. He can't have him killed because of this crazy lunatic chasing them. He was ready to release his grip until he noticed two silhouettes, standing underneath the dim streetlights as if waiting for them to go over.

One of the silhouettes lifted an arm, pointing something at them.

A gun.

A click.

"Giotto, duck!"

A single gunshot rang in the air. He could hear the impact next to his ear, and he could hear her body falling flat onto the ground. The smell of blood exploded into the air, and Guglielmo panted heavily, his eyes looking up at Giotto, who appeared as disoriented as he was.

"Finally she's down." A deep voice said. "Good work, Severo."

"What did she do again? I don't remember." The gunman said nonchalantly.

"Went nuts and stole our files."

"Hmm?"

"Apparently, she was instructed to kill the Rossi, but she kept their bambino alive. Probably thought the child was her dead kid. Then she went full-blown cuckoo."

"Ah, Rossi." remarked the man with a disinterested tone. He then looked their way, his green eyes looking almost hungry for blood. The gunman hummed a small tune, his long legs approaching the two children.

"Shall we kill these two as well?"

"Whatever, just don't make a mess." The other man said. "I'm outta here."

" _Addio_!" The gunman laughed as his companion left in an unassuming fashion, the man soon disappearing into the darkness. Then, stopping right before the two boys, the gunman's arm extended, a deadly weapon pressing on Giotto's forehead. Guglielmo felt fear rising in his throat, and he gazed at the blond's small back, which seemed so fearless, so firm even at this critical point in time.

Did he not fear death?

He then glanced at Giotto's hand, which did not loosen its grip on his.

Guglielmo then noticed one thing.

Giotto's hand was shaking.

"Oh-ho?" The gunman named Severo chuckled. "That's a nice look you've got there, kid."

Giotto did not reply. His orange eyes were only glaring straight at the man, clear and unwavering. The gunman's mouth stretched into a creepy grin, his gleaming white teeth contrasted against the night backdrop.

"I've decided," he declared. "I'll kill you in ten years time."

His eyes then switched their target to Guglielmo. His eyes scanned up and down, noticing the boy's flaming red hair and piercing red eyes.

"Ah, the Rossi's kid."

Beads of cold sweat ran down Guglielmo's neck.

"I liked your _padre_ a lot," he said. "He was really fun, I tell you. But the boss lost interest in him, so he had to die. A real pity."

However, his tone did not have an ounce of sympathy. It was a sadistic mockery, and Guglielmo would have screamed at the man if only his vocal cords had not stopped working a while ago.

"I'll spare you too, so make yourself interesting in ten years time, Rossi."

The man then turned around, his silhouette soon melting away into the night, and all that was left on the lonely street was a dead woman, and two children who had brushed past death.

"G,"

Guglielmo looked up, watching the clear, orange eyes of Giotto, whose hand was still holding tight onto his. The trembling of his fingers did not stop.

"Are you okay?"

Guglielmo couldn't believe what he was hearing. Why was Giotto asking him this? He was the one on the verge of death, the one who could have died a minute ago.

"Why?" He murmured, his voice shaky. "Why are you so concerned about me?"

For a child who had been living in the storm all this time, he did not understand why Giotto was doing this. He had seen the ugly side of people. The deceit, the violence, the darkness. No one would reach out to him, not in this chaotic world of his.

"Because you're my friend."

At that instant, the furious storm within him calmed down, and he felt the tempestuous weather inside him dissipating away gently within the expanse of a welcoming sky.

Tears fell.

"G? G?" Giotto asked, flustered. "Why are you crying? Were you hit by that woman? Are you hurt?"

He shook his head, rubbing his tears away with his sleeve. Can he really stay in the light? With this boy who called him a friend?

"Don't cry, G, don't cry anymore," Giotto said as he hugged the small, shaking figure of Guglielmo. It was like a sign of approval, and Guglielmo only cried even harder, the boy suddenly relieved of the darkness, of the hurricanes and the squalls.

The storm finally found his sky.

* * *

Morning arrived sooner than he thought. In the comforts of the Adelardi house, Guglielmo found himself lying on the same bed he left two nights ago, and he watched daylight seeping in. It was like a friendly reminder, that he was alive, that he was safe.

It turns out, the woman he called _madre_ and the man he called _zio_ all his life, were both wanted. Both by the law, and the mafia family feared by the people of Leggero.

The Nero _Famiglia_.

They were the ones who instigated the murder of his real _madre_ and _padre_ , people who he had never seen before, nor had any recollection of. In the end, he had no clue on where he really was from, and the only hint he had was the fearsome mafia.

And he was far too young to comprehend any of this.

He laid on the bed, his injuries still hurting him in waves of pain, and he watched the ceiling, the zig-zagged light rays and the pretty dust that floated in the air. Meanwhile, Giotto was lying on his own bed, in deep sleep, the boy drained from the excessive running and the near-death experience.

"Are you awake, Guglielmo?"

" _Signora_ Adelardi!" He exclaimed, struggling to sit up, prompting the wheelchair-bound lady to tell him to lie back down, and to lower his voice. She rolled her wheelchair over, closer to the boy, and she gently caressed his hair. Guglielmo flinched, for he was still not quite used to people being kind to him.

"Guglielmo, does it still hurt?"

"Yes, but it's much better."

"Good, good."

" _Signora_ Adelardi?"

"Yes?"

"What happened to my... The two of them?"

Camilla sighed, her palm rubbing the little boy's hand back and forth, comforting him.

"They're gone, Guglielmo, they won't come back anymore."

"I don't need to get beer for anyone anymore?" The boy carefully asked, the scars on his body throbbing.

"No, you don't need to."

"I won't get hit anymore?"

"No, you won't get hit anymore."

He stifled a hiccup, his hand rubbing his eyes to stop it from getting wet. No more darkness. No more of that horrid house of nightmares.

Lorenzo then entered the bedroom, his tall figure framed by the door itself. Camilla smiled at him, and Lorenzo nodded his head with a triumphant grin. She turned back, at the young child who was still full of wounds, inside and out.

"Guglielmo?"

His eyes met her tender gaze, and he tried to breathe.

"We've received permission from the town hall to take you in."

He momentarily stopped breathing, his wine-red eyes widening in disbelief.

"Do you want to live with us?"

This can't be happening to him.

"You don't have to call us _mamma_ or _papà_ ," Lorenzo added. "You can just stay with us."

He did nothing to deserve such kindness.

"Can I... really?" He gasped. The couple nodded their heads simultaneously, and Guglielmo could only desperately suppress the urge to cry, and nod back in reply.

He swears he'll protect this feeling. This feeling of sheer happiness.

* * *

It's been five years since that incident where he nearly died. G started living with him, his papà, and his mamma since then. And he can't even remember when was the last time he didn't do something without G with him. They were as close as brothers and did nearly everything together.

Yet lately, G has been disappearing everywhere, the boy behaving like a quiet, foreboding storm. He would come home late. He would miss his lessons with Giotto's _madre_ , and he would skip breakfast. Most importantly, he would return home with a bruise or two and claim that he tripped over a curb or banged into a tree.

And today, Giotto was walking down the streets alone, again.

He was annoyed. Really annoyed. Whenever something wasn't in order, he'll have this uncomfortable feeling, this uncomfortable premonition that usually turned out right. It was a strange innate ability he had, and as much as he didn't understand much of it, he didn't hate it. Contrary, this Hyper Intuition (a name he had decided upon) has helped him on numerous occasions.

And if this time it never failed him as it always did, G would be around this area.

Bingo.

The boy, whose height was taller than most of the other children of Leggero, made him stand out. And if you add in his distinct red hair, G would be one of the hardest people to miss on the streets.

"G,"

The boy glanced back, letting out a sigh when he saw the blond, who was wearing his usual fresh white shirt and brown pants, walking up to him. With a troubled frown on his face.

"Where'd you get that bruise from?"

"It wasn't my fault, alright? Igor was the one who started it first, and there is no reason why I shouldn't beat him up."

Giotto only frowned even more at G's answer. His best friend had only gotten more involved in fighting with the other children lately. As much as the two of them had once escaped death together five years ago, he did not like G's rash and rough behavior. More like, he was worried that G will one day land himself in inescapable trouble, where he won't get away with his life intact.

"You went into the alleys again, didn't you?" Giotto questioned. G's shoulders hunched slightly, and Giotto immediately knew that his intuition had given him the right answer.

"G,"

"I get it." The red-haired boy snapped. "The alleys are filled with dangerous people, and I should avoid them. But tell me, Giotto, what other way do I have in order for me to get more information on _them_?"

Giotto pursed his lips, watching an agitated G avoiding his gaze, looking straight into the alley that was right next to them. His red eyes dulled, his glare piercing through the darkness like an arrow.

"My parents were killed, Giotto."

"I know."

"You've done so much for me. Your _madre_ and _padre_ have done so much for me." G said, his voice strained. "But in the end, I still want revenge. And you of all people should know how important it is to me."

"I know." He sighed. "But that doesn't mean you should be as reckless as you are now."

"..."

G fell silent, and he clicked his tongue and shoved his hands into his pockets. Giotto was perceptive. Maybe too perceptive, and as much as he valued his friend more than anyone else in Leggero, Guglielmo sometimes hated that Giotto always saw through him like it was child's play.

"If you want to enter the alleys, at least bring me along."

And this was what Guglielmo really liked about Giotto. That reckless side of his that resonated with him. While he knows much of it was out of worry and kindness, he still liked that his best friend would take risks alongside him.

"Alright," he replied. Giotto smiled softly, and then, he quickened his steps, strolling right next to the red-haired boy.

Looks like he won't be walking alone on the streets today.

* * *

"Hold up, Guglielmo, you jerk!"

Giotto gasped, trying to run as fast as his legs could carry him. Though he liked to spar with his papà and G, he still hated most physical activities. Running included.

He knew going into the alleys with G would bring trouble, and it did, in the most annoying way ever. Ten-year-old children like both G and himself should not warrant such attention.

"Care to explain?" Giotto shouted at his friend, who was a few steps ahead of him thanks to his remarkable physical abilities. "Why in heavens are Igor and his gang chasing us with knives?"

"He provoked me." G replied.

"You could try learning to control your temper, you know."

"That arse deserved it," G murmured. "He was talking trash about you, and there is no way I will let him get away with it."

Giotto could no longer get any words out as he stared at his friend incredulously. They turned around the corner, heading deeper into the alleys.

"What?"

"No... Just..." Giotto wheezed, trying to catch his breath. "Surprised, that's all."

"It's nothing to be surprised about," G sighed. "Dead end ahead."

"Great, what's the plan?"

"As usual."

G ran slightly ahead, and the moment he reached the wall, he bent down, his back forming the perfect runway. And Giotto stepped on his back, springing himself up, and upon kicking the wall, he flew up. Igor and the other boys yelled in surprise, and Giotto was now plummeting downwards. He elbowed Igor right at the back, causing the boy to shout in pain, his spine having to have taken a full impact. Meanwhile, G was charging at the other five boys, his deft moves easily disarming the boys. Dull knives landed onto the dirt with a clatter, and Giotto followed up with a quick punch into each of their stomachs, causing them to grovel on the ground, all wailing for their _mamma_.

"Kuh..." Igor gritted his teeth as he gazed up at the two boys. "Guglielmo, you and that _trovatello_ -"

And a knee was sent straight into Igor's belly. The boy coughed violently, and he clutched his stomach, bowling over from the pain.

"G!" Giotto shouted.

"I told you, Igor, if I hear you calling Giotto with that word again, I'll break your finger."

And Guglielmo got closer to Igor, whose eyes went hazy when his hand was grabbed by the red-haired boy.

"G!"

"I'm not gonna have anyone disrespecting you, Giotto!"

Igor shook his head vehemently, yelling, his finger about to be bent backward.

"G, enough!"

He released his grip, and taking the chance, Igor ran off, his underlings following him, all groaning and whimpering at the same time. Giotto looked at his friend, the furious expression on G's face slowly dying away.

G clicked his tongue, barely controlling the urge to spit out a few vulgarities, and he kicked away one of the knives, frustrated.

"I know how much you hate being called that." G said. "So why stop me?"

"Because violence will never solve anything," Giotto admonished. "But..."

G then met the same vast, clear orange eyes.

"... Thanks for standing up for me."

G rubbed his neck, feeling embarrassed, and proceeded to pretend to ignore Giotto. The blond, while amused by the red-haired's reaction, said nothing. G then brushed past his friend, ready to move out of this corner of the alley. It was then when he was suddenly tugged from behind, by none other than Giotto himself. He landed on his bottom painfully, and in his confusion, he was ready to shout at Giotto for being so abrupt. However, a hand covered his mouth, prompting him to keep quiet.

His irises shifted to their left, and he watched Giotto, the boy's orange eyes appearing incredibly alert. He was not moving, and neither was G. The red-haired boy waited with bated breath, wondering what was going on.

"Listen," Giotto whispered as he slowly released his hand. G straightened himself up, still confused, yet he made sure to open his ears. Footsteps that were not far away from them clacked and G knew instantly that whoever these footsteps belonged to, were not of the people of the alleys.

Two muffled voices then spoke, soft, yet audible to both of them. The walls amplified their voices more than expected, and both boys could hear their conversation as clear as day.

"Did you bring it?"

"Here, the boss has signed the agreement."

"Good, I assume you are aware of the date and location of the raid?"

"Yes, in three days at the town square. Wouldn't miss it."

"Perfect. I trust that the Nero _Famiglia_ will produce results."

"And we thank you for providing us this wonderful opportunity, s _ignor_. It is about time for this town of light to fall into our hands."

"I'll look forward to that."

"Likewise."

The footsteps then clacked again, this time, brisk and fading away. It did not take long for the noise to totally disappear within the alley, and the two boys waited it out, for caution's sake. Giotto then finally stood up, one hand pressing his chest as he breathed a sigh of relief.

"They're gone." He said. G, on the other hand, was still sitting against the wall, his hand balling up into fists.

"It's them," He exhaled. "It's them, Giotto."

"They're planning a raid." Giotto uttered, a frown sitting on his brows, while G stood up.

"We'll catch them." G declared with a determined fury. "I'll catch them, and I'll make them spill out why they killed my parents."

"No,"

"What? Why?" G protested. "Isn't that why we're doing this?"

"Our primary purpose this time, cannot be for revenge."

"Then what is it? What's more important than having that evil _famiglia_ gone?" G cried out, exasperated and vexed.

Giotto then gazed into his friend's eyes, his orange eyes flickering with resolution.

"The town," He said firmly. "We have to protect the town from their raid."

G fell silent, for he knew that Giotto was right. As much as he wanted the Nero _Famiglia_ dead, he should have never prioritized his revenge over the safety of the townspeople of Leggero. And he felt ashamed that he had almost let his emotions get the better over his rational thought.

"So? What's the plan?" And this time, it was G's turn to ask. Giotto closed his eyes, thinking, and finally, when his eyes flashed open, G could see a noticeable glint in his friend's eyes.

"I have an idea,"

* * *

The shaman was still as she looked up, her azure blue eyes holding a mysterious reflection within them. In the comforts of her _famiglia_ 's mansion, she relaxed, her eyes flitting towards the table. A box that was intricately designed, seemed harmless on the outside, but whatever it contained, was incredibly precious and dangerous.

She felt his presence behind her, and turning her chair around, she greeted the person that was standing there with a solemn expression.

"Zechariah,"

"I would prefer if you'd call me by my alter ego's name, Sepira."

"It doesn't change that both names apply to the same person," the shaman said, and she pursed her lips. "Another one disappeared, I presume."

The man, who was wearing an iron hat with a checkered design to it, said nothing. Sepira understood his silence, and she glanced at the box once again.

"The stones are weeping." Sepira lamented with a brooding expression. "At this rate, the world balance will topple."

"We can just establish another _i prescelti sette_." Zechariah, or also known as Checker Face, muttered monotonously.

"No," Sepira objected. "I've gone along with your decision centuries ago, but I will not permit you to repeat another tragedy like the Arcobaleno."

"Then what do you propose?" The man asked as he tapped his finger on the tip of his cane. "What do you see, shaman?"

Sepira let out a deep breath, a smile gradually forming on her face.

"Rings," she said. "That will never place stress on their wearer. They will be split into two sets of seven rings, each set holding their unique 'miracle' like that of the pacifiers."

"Sepira, don't tell me..." Zechariah gritted his teeth, his hands gripping the head of his cane tight. "You plan to grant all of the stones' power to humans? To that abominable species?"

"Zechariah, as much as you hate humans, you must never deny how indispensable they are to this world," Sepira said, her steely eyes looking at the man, who had disapproval written all over his masked face. "Our ideals have always been different, and I don't blame you."

"Then you should very well understand that I will not agree to this plan."

"That's why I will not grant all the rings to them, Checker."

"I'm listening."

"I will keep one set for me and my famiglia, and I will grant the other set to a human chosen by the rings," Sepira explained. "Is that better?"

Zechariah pondered for a little while, and he noticed the look in the shaman's eyes. They don't lie, he remarked in his head. And he knew very well that the shaman's decisions were never wrong.

"But...," he trailed off. "Why you and your _famiglia_? Why not you yourself?"

Sepira shook her head somberly. "I have to protect the Sky pacifier. Besides... I don't have much time left."

The man fell silent. He couldn't say anything in return to his fellow being. He had experienced such partings a number of times, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Even though he had the strongest life force out of them all, it amounted to nothing if he was powerless to prevent the dying out of his species.

"If I'm lucky, two more centuries. If I'm not, fifty years." Sepira added.

"Who will take over you? And who will take care of the Sky pacifier?" Zechariah muttered.

"My descendants,"

"Descendants?"

"The future showed me." She affirmed, and the man nodded in understanding.

"What about the human that will be chosen by the other set?"

Sepira simpered, looking pleased with herself. Her fingers ran across the box cover knowingly, as she answered, "He'll appear soon."

"A human child," She continued. "Who is able to wield the Sky Flames of Dying Will."

The man stiffened, unable to swallow Sepira's prediction. No human has been able to witness a Flame of Dying Will, much less wield it. Yet, her visions were never wrong. Not even once.

"Very well," he agreed, albeit reluctantly. "So, what shall we name this new system that you came up with, shaman Sepira?"

The woman broke into a wide smile, her eyes twinkling with wisdom.

"The Sea knows no bounds. The Clam passes down its form from Generation to Generation. The Rainbow appears from time to time before fading away." She sang. "These shall be the rules that bind them, the 'miracles' that the rings and the pacifiers will withhold. The three sets of seven."

"The _Tri-ni-Sette_."

* * *

 **Some Italian definitions (courtesy of Google Translate)**

 _Pazza donna_ \- crazy woman

 _Mio dolce bambino_ \- My sweet baby

 _Addio_ \- bye

 _i prescelti sette_ \- the seven selected (referring to the Arcobaleno)

 _Tri-ni-Sette_ \- While I know that the Reborn wiki page states it as " _Tri-ni-set_ ", I assumed " _Sette_ " to be more suitable since the word means seven in Italian.


	4. Chapter 4: Tainted Storm

Tainted Storm

Along a particular street in Leggero, a bar sat inconspicuously at the left corner, its lights switched on even in the afternoon. Its owner is Bartolomeo, a burly, stout Italian man in his forties, who made superb alcoholic beverages behind his tiny counter. He liked his work, and one will often hear him humming to himself as he serves up beer and cocktails fit for the everyday townsperson.

As an owner of a place where transactions, both illegal and lawful, transpired every day, Bartolomeo had a trove of dangerous information in his head. Adding to the fact that he had a rather retarded appearance, it was more likely for people to leak out whatever they were hiding in their drunken stupor. And there were few who were aware of his value as an information broker, so he often experienced risky, if not, memorable instances of people coming to him for information.

And today, his customers were two ten-year-old boys. He smirked, while one of the boys gazed at him with a look betraying his age. Meanwhile, sitting right next to him was a ginger, whose eyes shifted all around the bar, seemingly wary of the smell of alcohol and the men who were engaged in their own conversations.

He knew these two children.

Giotto has an undeniable presence in the town. It wasn't just his blonde hair and his orange eyes that made him a familiar figure, but his peculiar charm and eloquence that made him an unmistakable constant on the streets. He was just ten, no doubt a young age, but he has a voice that is heard by many.

Bartolomeo, though known to be a rather brash person, and at times rowdy, has a soft spot for the adopted child of the Adelardi couple. He often praised how the _ragazzo_ will one day rise above the rest, and while people will allude it to another of his useless ramblings, he never fails to express his respect for the young boy.

Guglielmo was also another boy that perked Bartolomeo's interest many times. A boy with a fierce and adamant loyalty towards Giotto, he was well-known to be a fighting genius among the children and a difficult child. He spoke curtly and brashly, like how Bartolomeo often did when he was a kid, so the barkeeper had quite the interesting relationship with the boy as well.

"The Nero _Famiglia_ , aye?" Bartolomeo said as he glanced towards the clock. "Yer are working with something dangerous, boys."

"No shit, old man," Guglielmo muttered, visibly irritated.

"Language, Guglielmo," The barkeeper's wife called out from the counter, and the red-haired boy hurriedly apologized under his breath.

"Do you have anything about their recent activities?" Giotto said as softly as he could, lest nosy people were to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Well, can't say that I know nothing about it, but why do you have to know?"

"Just spit it out," Guglielmo hissed.

"Where's yer respect?"

"Please," The boy added, forcefully.

Bartolomeo looked at the duo, his hands cleaning the beer mugs, and raising his eyebrow, he assessed the two with a critical eye. Meanwhile, his wife came in with a whole tray of dirty mugs and set it at the corner of the counter.

"Alright," He said at last. "But don't tell anyone else that I told you."

"Of course," Giotto assured him.

"Some _mafiosi_ have been seen entering and leaving the town hall, and a large number of them loitering around the town square these past few weeks." Bartolomeo began. "Rumors has it the town council is in cahoots with them."

"The town council?" Guglielmo exclaimed.

"Aye," Bartolomeo nodded. "You kids may not know since you two are still ignorant, but even those considered to be the light of our town, still hide an ugly darkness."

The two boys exchanged glances, seemingly unperturbed.

"No reaction, aye?" Bartolomeo sighed. "Can't blame ya, corruption is everywhere in Italy, Leggero included, and it's no wonder that ya have seen something bad or two. Ya should be glad that our town has it much better than the others. Even if the Nero _Famiglia_ takes over the town, it won't make any difference."

"Wait, you knew?" G shouted before he hurriedly lowered his voice. "Why aren't you doing anything?" He growled, fist banging onto the counter.

Bartolomeo eyed the boy, his hand shoving another mug into his shelf. "I have a family to feed," He bit down on his lip. "Neither do I have any power to defend against them."

"Then is anyone else trying to stop them?" Giotto asked.

"No," Bartolomeo answered bluntly.

"Why?" Giotto questioned. "This is our town, so why isn't anyone protecting it?"

The barkeeper slammed down a glass of juice before the two boys, the sweet liquid splashing out and dripping out of the glass. Giotto and G both froze, stunned by the adult's sudden act. Bartolomeo's wife did not bother to tell her husband off this time, considering that the man was being serious for once in a long while.

"Ya getting the wrong impression, boys." He said while his grip on the glass tightened. "It's not a matter whether there's anyone here who wish to protect the town, but a matter of whether anyone _can_ protect the town." He released his grip, then wiping his hand with the checkered tablecloth on the side of the counter. "Believe me, plenty of us have the same sentiment as both of you do, but none of us dare to do so."

"But-!" Giotto began.

"Stop prying and have your attempt at heroism. Yer far too young, and yer just going to get yourself killed."

"For once, boys, I agree with my husband here," Bartolomeo's wife piped in. "You shouldn't try to deal with those horrible _mafiosi_ at your age. Your _madre_ and _padre_ wouldn't want that either."

Giotto gritted his teeth, clearly lost at words the moment his adoptive parents were mentioned. Bartolomeo sighed and assuming that the topic was over, he turned around, ready to grab another few more mugs to wash.

"They are going to have a raid in three days at the town square," His calm voice echoed in the bar, firmly, yet quietly. G stayed silent as he watched his friend, almost as if he was brooding and waiting for the sky to brew a storm.

Bartolomeo and his wife paused, the couple looking at the boys with puzzled expressions. The numerous customers sitting in the seats set their mugs down, their ears perking up, each and every one of them intrigued in the two boys' conversation with the local barkeeper. In fact, they had been eavesdropping on their exchange the moment the two boys entered the bar since it was queer to see kids coming into such a gloomy place, and queerer to see Giotto and G, of all people, to be in the bar.

"People are going to die," Giotto continued, his voice starting to tremble ever so slightly. "The vulnerable will be attacked, and I don't want to see it happening."

Bartolomeo and his wife held their breaths. So did the rest of the men with their alcohols.

"We'll protect the town," Giotto declared. G nodded his head in agreement and looked at Bartolomeo, eyes steely and unyielding. The barkeeper sighed, hand rubbing the back of his neck out of exasperation.

"Alright, alright," he gasped. "I'll help you out. Can't exactly let ya two to plunge into your deaths or else Lorenzo will have my head."

"Agreed," a familiar voice called out, and both Giotto and G spun around, surprised to see Lorenzo Adelardi standing at the entrance of the bar. The men scattered around the bar turned around, surprised to see the porter in the small establishment.

"P-Papà!?" Giotto cried out, stunned by his _padre_ 's sudden appearance. "Why are you here?"

"I'm having a short break from work now and came to have a chat with an old friend," His _padre_ explained while grinning at Bartolomeo. "Seems like he's taking good care of both of you."

"Yer son's a hard nut to crack, Lorenzo," Bartolomeo pointed out. "Takes after ya a little too much, aye?"

Lorenzo chuckled, and then he went over to the two children, sternly looking at them. Both Giotto and G said nothing as they lowered their heads, afraid to look at the man in the eye.

"Trying to take on the mafia with just you the two of you, is going to be suicide," Lorenzo muttered. "Give up-"

"But _signor_ -!" G shouted.

"Is what I would have said," Lorenzo uttered calmly, and the two boys widened their eyes. "Both Bart and I will help. I'll get my coworkers, and Bart can spread the news in the bar. Is that better?'

"Count me in, lads." A gruff voice said, and one of Bartolomeo's customers raising his beer mug triumphantly. Others followed, and the boys watched in disbelief as the entire bar was filled with people who were ready to partake in two boy's quest to protect the lazy, quiet town of Leggero.

"We adults can't let the lads hog all the glory," The same man said, and he stood up, ambling over to the bar counter. "Those scoundrels must not run wild in our town any longer."

The man then planted a hand onto Giotto's hair, tousling it proudly. "So this is the lad you've always talked about, Bart? He really is something."

"Told ya, Durante." Bartolomeo chuckled.

"And you too, young man," The man called Durante said as he tousled G's hair next, earning a displeased grunt from the boy who tore away from the man's reach in a matter of seconds.

"Thank you, _signor_ ," Giotto said with gratitude. "Thank you so much."

Durante broke into a wide, nearly toothless grin, and glancing over to the other men in the bar, he simply said to the young boy, "No, thank you. It was the two of you who reminded us of a fundamental desire we should not have lost."

The men all nodded in agreement, with Bartolomeo's wife grinning to herself. Indeed, through all the years she had been living in this town, this was the first time she finally sees passion and fervor bubbling out of all of these men.

"The desire to protect," Durante said.

Giotto and G puffed their chests out, delighted, while the men all cheered, and in this establishment that sat at the corner of the town, something amazing was indeed happening. When the brouhaha died down, Lorenzo patted his son on the back and asked with much curiosity, "So, what is the plan you have in mind, Giotto?"

The young boy, with a tranquil air around him, smiled.

"We'll surprise them,"

* * *

The air was horribly humid, yet oddly dusty, with the streets clouded with puffs of sand that were swept up by the cool, bleak breeze that ran down the pavements. It was a time of quiet and inactivity, around three in the afternoon, and down the very end of the street, twenty men, all armed with guns and daggers, marched forward, clearly heading for the town square. They weren't all too inconspicuous, yet at the same time, they stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the silent town.

No one could blame them, to be very honest. They themselves had initially planned to stay low, all the way until they reached the town square so that they could carry out their plan to raid the stores in the area. All of them were aware of how crucial their role is today. While it did not take long for their boss to bribe the town's governor and hence setting their plan to take over the town into motion, they need to assert their superiority and dominance in order to strike fear in the townspeople. To do so, they were supposed to flaunt and display the strength of the Nero _Famiglia_. And that was their main goal today.

But what good does a raid do, when there is absolutely nothing for them to raid?

Their leader, a short, rotund man with a perfectly bald egg head, was perturbed by the sheer lack of people in the place. From what he heard, the governor had removed all sorts of security around the place, making it easy for them to enter and roam around the place, but he never expected for Leggero to turn into a literal ghost town. It was throwing him and his men off-guard, but he knew he had to continue with the plan, or else if he were to return with nothing, the boss will have his head.

He spotted a disheveled homeless sitting by the curb, eyes watching them warily. The _mafioso_ snorted, boldly walking up to the man and grabbing him by his filthy collar. The man was shaking, his knobbly fingers intertwining nervously.

"Speak, filth, where is everyone?" He slurred, and in return, he earned a vigorous shaking of the head. The leader then threw the man onto the ground, clicking his tongue in frustration, before motioning his subordinate to finish the homeless off.

They soon stepped foot into the square, which was empty and the silence it rang out unnerved the twenty men.

"Leader," One of his men leaned in closer. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

The man did not know what to answer. "Are you implying that the boss is lying?" He snapped, and his subordinate flinched and respectfully moved back. Yet the leader himself cannot deny that he was feeling as if he had been cheated by his own boss.

"Well, dear men, do go ahead and trash this place." He finally decided, knowing that even if they are unable to show the _famiglia_ 's might directly to the people, they can still indirectly display it through destruction. His men obeyed and scattered, each of them heading to a different store to wreck the place.

Until he heard shouts of surprise from all directions, and he turned around, eyes widening in shock. Big, burly men sprung out of the shops, slamming their bodies into his subordinates, tearing their weapons from their grasps. Five of them were disarmed and knocked out in mere seconds, while the remaining fourteen were still fumbling for their guns.

"Don't falter, men!" He screamed. "Shoot 'em!"

And with a roar of fury, gunshots resounded in the air, yet the men of Leggero soon defended themselves behind the crates and boxes. The leader clicked his tongue, annoyed, and he snatched a gun out of his holster, aiming it straight at one of their assailants.

The bullets hit the man at his thigh, causing him to shriek in pain, blood shooting out of his wound. The leader smirked, ready to land a final shot to kill these foolish people who dared to go against their _famiglia_.

A sudden fist punched him at the cheek, the sheer force of it sending him off his feet. He whimpered, eyes looking at the man who stood before him. He was tall and well-built, and he cracked his knuckles in a slow, ponderous manner as he directed a ferocious glare at the _mafioso_. The puzzled and nervous leader of the group glanced around, seeing most of his men being pummeled. Some tried to retaliate, yet numerous children that appeared from nowhere started hurling stones and pebbles at them, causing most of their shots to miss.

What was going on? Was this really Leggero? A town that the boss described to be the most peaceful, the most cowardly and the easiest town to take over in the whole of Italy?

"What did you do?" The leader snapped at Lorenzo, who narrowed his eyes. "How did you know that we will be raiding the town square?"

Lorenzo Adelardi merely smiled, and he looked from the corner of his eye towards Giotto, who was assisting Durante at throwing rocks at the other intruders. On that day in the bar, Giotto had the brilliant idea of ambushing the enemy in return. With Bart, Durante and his influence on the town, as well as the two children going around to warn the shopkeepers in the town, they managed to successfully have everyone close their shops, hence creating the perfect farce for the town. And after convincing many other upright men of Leggero to join in defending the town against the _mafiosi_ and gathering the children, they were ready to send in unexpected attacks onto the intruders.

Giotto truly exceeded all his expectations.

Merely a ten-year-old child, yet he was able to rally adults who were much older than he was, children his age, and with a pure bravery found in no one else, it did not take long for many of the townspeople to have a fire lit within their hearts, the desire to protect suddenly ringing through the town of Leggero.

"One should never underestimate even a child, sometimes," Lorenzo absent-mindedly replied, earning a perplexed glare from the _mafioso_. What in blazes is this man talking about?

"In any case, tell that boss of yours to leave Leggero alone," Lorenzo threatened, while behind him, another _mafioso_ fell to the ground, defeated. "We won't tolerate any more of your _famiglia_ 's wrongdoings."

"Heh," The bald man snorted. "In case you are not aware, your town's beloved governor betrayed each and every one of you and has given us the town. Even if you do not surrender to us today, we will come the next day to make this town part of our _famiglia_ 's turf."

"Suit yourself," Lorenzo said. "We won't go down without a fight."

The man flinched, bewildered by the man's fierce and firm attitude. He looked around, only to witness the last of his men to be done in, weapons all scattered around, their purpose lost due to their failure to defend themselves from the townspeople's ambush. They truly underestimated this town.

He was going to fail, the leader realized. He gritted his teeth, getting onto his feet and diving for the gun that was lying on the ground mere feet away from him. He turned his body around, muzzle already pointing straight at Lorenzo's heart, finger on the trigger. Lorenzo widened his eyes, his mind telling him to dodge the bullet. The rest of the townspeople, all already done with their respective battles, watched the scene unfold before them in horror.

Giotto dropped all his pebbles and shouted for his _padre_ to run, to get away from the murderous _mafioso_. Little did anyone, even himself, notice that a faint flame was lighting up in the middle of his forehead, his eyes suddenly burning with a brighter and flaming shade of orange.

The crystal clear, orange flame flickered on his forehead perilously.

A single gunshot resounded into the air, silencing everything else. And at that instant, the same flame on Giotto's forehead was extinguished, as if it never existed. A lone bullet capsule landed on the ground unassumingly, its bright metal clink breaking everyone else out of their reveries.

The _mafioso_ was lying on the ground, the trigger on his gun unpressed, and a ghastly hole on his right temple. His skull was shattered by the impact of the bullet, blood cascading out of his head like a waterfall. His eyes were glistening, pupils dilating, life slowly sucked out of the man. He was clueless on what hit him, and his eyes remained open as his heart stopped beating.

Lorenzo dropped to his knees, his chest heaving up and down the moment he was made aware that he could have died mere seconds ago. He then turned to his left, wanting to see who shot the bullet that saved his life.

And like everyone else within the town square, Lorenzo's mouth dropped open, his eyes unable to comprehend what was going on. Nearly fifteen feet away from where he stood, the boy was leaning against the wall of one of the shops, his hands quivering as they gripped onto the gun, which emitted wispy smoke from its muzzle. Guglielmo Rossi lost his balance a second later, the grip on the firearm loosening. He panted, repeatedly, still unable to understand what he had just done. The young, red-haired boy was still staring ahead, mystified by the adrenaline that was rushing through his body seconds ago and the horror that was pulsating through him right now.

No way, he told himself. No way, no way, no way.

All he wanted was to protect Lorenzo, the kind _signor_ who took him in when he had nowhere else to go. All he did was to obey his instincts, to grab the gun that was lying on the ground, to aim it, to shoot it. At the man who was threatening their precious, precious happiness.

He stared at his hands, petrified. They were clean, but at the same time, they were not. He then looked up, at the _mafioso_ he had shot. The man was no longer moving, almost like a puppet that lost its strings, and Guglielmo could see the red of the man's blood painting the ground, painting his own hands.

He started hyperventilating, his gasps coming out in spurts of horror, his screams coming out of his mouth noiselessly. The arms of the barkeeper Bartolomeo were wrapped around his small bod, his gruff words trying to soothe him, yet the comfort was unfelt by the boy as realization trickled slowly into him, like the blood of the man who died from the bullet.

His bullet.

Lorenzo, disregarding the _mafioso_ 's corpse, ran straight towards the child, his eyes not tearing away from Guglielmo. From the corner of his eye, he saw Giotto, running way faster than him, his son already reaching his distraught friend. Bartolomeo released the boy from his arms as Giotto skidded to a stop before Guglielmo. The red-haired child stared at his friend with glazed eyes, his whole body shaking non-stop. The blond said nothing, squatting down and looking at his best friend eye-to-eye.

"Giotto, I..." G began, his body trembling with an unknown fear and an unknown feeling of despair. "I... killed... killed..." He could only repeat the same word, again and again. Meanwhile, Lorenzo prevented anyone to approach the delicate situation, warning the curious and shocked townspeople to not get any closer to the boys. Bartolomeo similarly glared at the people around them, instantly causing them to keep quiet and quickly go off to clean up the mess created by the fight.

"G, calm down," Giotto urged as he grabbed onto Guglielmo's hand tightly.

"I... killed someone," The boy finally gasped, his pupils shaking wildly. He could no longer deny it and was forced to accept it in a matter of seconds. "I killed... that man, Giotto."

His friend pursed his lips, and Guglielmo was instantly filled with fear. Will Giotto now hate him because he killed someone? Will his sky abandon him, a storm that seems to be accompanied with violence no matter what?

And as if it were an answer to his questions, Giotto's hands grabbed his shoulders, his orange eyes staring deeply into his own wine-red ones. His shaking momentarily stopped, his fear suddenly gone as Giotto's gaze commanded him to look him into the eye.

"Yes, you killed that man," Giotto said firmly. "There's no doubt that you killed him, G."

The adults around the two boys could not hold in their exclamations of appalment, shocked at the straightforwardness of the Adelardi's kid. Guglielmo's eyes only widened, even more, his heart virtually on the verge of shattering apart.

"But you protected my _pap_ à,"

Guglielmo gasped, his breath cut short while Giotto smiled.

"If you did not fire that shot, my _pap_ à would have died."

"Yes, Guglielmo," Lorenzo said, as he slowly lowered himself to the boy's height. "You saved my life."

"I... I did?"

"Yes," Lorenzo affirmed. "You did. Thank you."

The red-haired boy stared at Lorenzo, then at Giotto, then at the gun that was lying next to him. His breathing slowly eased, and though the fear was still gripping his heart, he managed to control it, his eyes still fixated on the firearm.

He killed someone.

He killed someone to protect another.

He looked up, straight at Giotto, his tear-stained face gradually gaining back its color and recovering from the shock. Nodding his head, he attempted to stand up, his legs not yet listening to him. Giotto supported him, bringing Guglielmo up to his feet.

"You two go home first," Lorenzo said. "We adults will take care of things."

The two boys looked around, watching the adults already carrying the corpse away and tying up rest of the _mafiosi_ , a few tending to the mildly injured, and all chattering amongst themselves about their victory. Both of them then nodded, slowly trudging away, Guglielmo's arm around Giotto's shoulder.

"Guglielmo!" A gruff voice called out from behind, and the red-haired kid turned around, just to see Bartolomeo standing next to Lorenzo. The barkeeper slapped a fist onto his chest, his narrow eyes staring straight at the boy.

"Don't forget this feeling," He said loudly.

And in return, Guglielmo Rossi nodded his head, the boy no longer afraid.

* * *

The hitman was lying on the couch lazily, one hand caressing his gun, the other grabbing a bottle of whiskey. He brought the mouth of the bottle to his lips, ready to drink and lavish in the taste of the fine alcohol until the sound of his door opening could be heard. He lips broke into a mysterious grin, whiskey forgotten.

"Severo!" The same, old voice called out. "Severo, where are you?"

The man sighed, his arm raising the bottle of whiskey lazily and waving it about. His partner noticed him, and with urgent steps, he was now right beside the couch, arms crossed.

"One of our men returned with news," His partner began. "The raid failed."

"A spectacular failure," Severo chuckled sarcastically. "As expected of Raul."

"Well, Raul got done in too," The man said. "That town sprung an ambush onto his group, and he got himself killed."

"As expected of that egghead." The hitman said nonchalantly.

"The boss is not happy," His partner said indignantly. "He wants you to go and investigate who killed Raul, and this time, you'd better heed his orders." The man then clicked his tongue as he watched Severo casually setting the whiskey bottle onto the coffee table, not a sense of urgency to be felt by the best fighter of their _famiglia_. "You may be favored by the boss, but now is not the time to be lazing around! Once we have Leggero, we will have a strategic location to launch attacks on the other mafia families. So get your ass off the couch right now!"

"No need,"

"What?"

"I said, no need."

Suddenly, the man, still lying on the couch, raised his arm, his gun pointing at the other _mafioso_ , who was instantly on tenterhooks, fear gripping his chest.

"Bang," Severo muttered lazily. His partner shuddered, a huge wave of relief washing over him when he realized that it was a joke. He got back his bearings, wanting to tell Severo off once again.

"I saw it," The hitman recalled, causing the other man to hold back his scoldings. "The delightful sound of a gunshot, that exquisite fountain of blood, ladadida, ladadida."

"Wait," The partner said, narrowing his eyes. "You were there?"

"Ladadida, ladadida~," Severo mutely sang. "Of course I was there, watching Raul being shot by that kid from fifteen feet away was a wonderful way to spend the time."

"What!?" His partner exclaimed. "A kid!?"

"Rossi's son," Severo hummed the same little tune. "He has talent, like his _padre_."

His partner was in absolute disbelief, and he was so ready to deny the hitman's claim, but when he saw the scary glint in the man's eyes, he thought otherwise. Meanwhile, Severo sat up, twirling his gun. He grabbed the whiskey again, swallowing a large gulp. He slammed the bottle heavily onto the table, and right now, the other _mafioso_ cannot wait to get away from the hitman. Yet his feet were glued to the ground, and he could only try his best to not faint from the bloodlust the man was oozing out carelessly. It has been long since he had seen the hitman looking so exuberant, so thrilled, so hungry for blood.

The only times he ever had such an expression was when Corvo Rossi was alive.

The hitman stood to his full height, and his partner gazed up at the six and a half feet tall man, who was stretching his muscles, gun still in hand.

"Tell the boss that Leggero can wait," Severo murmured, a creepy smile on his lips. "We will not take control of it so soon."

"Are you crazy, Severo?" The _mafioso_ finally found his courage to shout. "The boss will not let you go so easily this time-"

"Yes, he will." Severo snarled, the gun pointing at the man once again. "He should know how important I am to the _famiglia._ Besides, I can leave the _famiglia_ anytime I want."

"Severo, you-!" He froze and swallowed his words when the hitman placed a finger on the trigger. He took in a deep breath before he stared straight into the eyes of Severo sternly. "What are you planning to do?" The man knew better than to upset Severo, whose strength was really what was keeping the _famiglia_ afloat. Without him, the Nero _Famiglia_ would have long perished. In fact, he was the rightful boss of the _famiglia_ , had not he refuse due to his irrational drive to search for strong opponents.

An almost mischievous, innocent smirk was plastered onto the hitman's face, but the other man knew otherwise.

"I'm going to be a tutor."

* * *

In the Giglio Nero _Famiglia_ 's mansion, two rows of butlers and maids lined the carpet, all respectfully greeting their boss who had just returned. She walked gracefully, her right-hand man, a man with silvery blonde hair and electric green eyes following her behind. Suddenly, the boss stopped in her tracks, causing her right-hand man to nearly collide with her back. He hurriedly apologized and was about to ask her what was wrong, but the moment his eyes landed on the glowing orange pacifier, he found himself tongue-tied at the sight of the phenomenon.

He never thought that the pacifier was capable of emitting such a bright, warm light. All this time, he had only regarded it as a simple accessory, yet right now, the light it gave out was almost blinding.

"B-Boss?" He finally said.

Sepira said nothing, her fingers holding onto the pacifier gently, a knowing smile revealed on her countenance.

"Tuono, prepare the carriage," She ordered.

"Boss? We just reached home!" He exclaimed. "Where are you going to in such a hurry?"

"Leggero, Tuono," She said as she turned around, her feet bringing her towards the front door, the pacifier's light only growing. "Make haste, the _Tri-ni-Sette_ is anxious."

"The what? Wait, boss!" Tuono sputtered. "What's going on?"

Sepira stopped while a sun-like smile spread across her face.

"The sky child has awakened."


	5. Chapter 5: Proteggere

Proteggere

The sky was in a sea of uncertainty.

It was not as if it was absolutely devoid of clouds, sun, wind, or rain, for that matter. Instead, the soft rumblings of a faraway storm palpitated in the vast blue of the sky's expanse, dubious and oddly iffy.

It mirrored Giotto's current emotions.

He dangled his legs from the large rock where he sat, eyes staring down at the running stream, the lapping waters emitting a relaxing symphony of nature. Giotto, however, was not relaxed in the slightest. The young _ragazzo_ was mulling over another problem. A few problems.

He expected the Nero _Famiglia_ to launch another attack. He expected them to come back with more men, and he was mentally prepared for their second arrival.

Except, they never did.

The police that came in and pretended to be doing their jobs said nothing about the incident, and the governors, as expected, claimed that they knew next to nothing about the _famiglia_ 's plan. The townspeople expressed their outrage towards the authorities, but most of their cries went unheard.

It was just three days before that he saw someone die. It was just three days before that he saw someone killed another.

G.

He closed his eyes, hands clasped into a prayer. He can't fathom how his best friend must have felt, and even now, he hated himself to be unable to be by his side, both physically and mentally.

G had been having nightmares, the boy often waking up in the middle of the night, his body drenched with sweat, his eyes shaking with fright. And all Giotto could do for him was to hold the hand of his best friend, and pray, and pray next to him.

The red-haired boy no longer walks the alleys and told Giotto to leave him be, for him to calm his mind. And Giotto did. He did not want to pry into his reasons, because he knows that his friend's reasons were not pretty.

His heart ached. He could not understand why it had to happen. Why did G have to kill? Why did that _mafiaso_ have to kill his _padre_? Was a death inevitable in the first place?

He did not have an answer. Looking upwards, the sky did not give him an answer either.

Loud barks broke him away from his thoughts, and turning around, he saw his family dog, Aberto, bounding up the rocks unsteadily. The boy grinned, watching the old canine arriving next to him, long tongue hanging down from its mouth, its only eye shining with cheer. Giotto rubbed the dog's neck, palms running across whatever remaining fur Aberto have left on its body.

"Hey, Aberto," Giotto said with a joyful laugh. The dog licked the boy affectionately, who let out a chuckle from the ticklish feeling.

Aberto saved him when he was abandoned, as told to him by his _papà_. Though the dog was now aged and feeble, Giotto still adored it with every ounce of his being, and so did Aberto. It seemed to know when the child was troubled, when he was happy and when he was down. And it never failed to cheer Giotto up.

Giotto reached out another hand, wanting to play with the dog, but Aberto suddenly stood upright, its legs straightening. It started sniffing, head facing eastward. It arched its back, indicating that it has sensed something unknown that was coming their way. Giotto, understanding the dog's behavior instantly, shifted his gaze towards where Aberto was looking.

A strangely shaped figure was moving behind the trees that located not far away from the river. It shuffled about, and Aberto barked in return, while Giotto slowly stood up, eyes squinting to take a good look at whoever was coming out of the holt.

It did not take long for a woman, who was of average height to emerge out of the trees. Wearing a large, white mushroom-shaped hat on her head and donning a white and orange cloak with gold trims, she headed towards the boy and his dog, an air of quietness and surreality surrounding her. As she got closer, Giotto noticed the orange mark beneath her right eye, shaped like a clover, as well as the orange pacifier that was around her neck. He flinched, wary of the woman who was mere feet away from him and Aberto.

When he stared at her straight in the eyes, he felt air being emptied out of him, his body unable to comprehend who (or what) was in front of him. He did not know whether to run or to stay calm, because, in the face of such an unknown existence, his Hyper Intuition was running bonkers.

She regarded him with a gentle, calming gaze. And he wheezed, the air suddenly returning to him.

"You're... not human." He said, orange eyes not leaving the woman. Aberto barked, as if in agreement, and the woman stayed still for a moment, surprised at Giotto's words.

"Perceptive," she remarked. "There's never been any human who can see through my kind."

Giotto gulped nervously, his hand holding back Aberto from pouncing onto the woman. The boy stepped backward by one step, and the woman merely smiled at his defensive response.

"Don't be afraid, I'm not here to hurt you."

Giotto paused, and he relaxed, just so slightly, for his intuition told him that she was saying the truth.

"I'm Sepira," she introduced. "What's your name?"

"Giotto,"

"My, a lovely name," Sepira smiled. "How old are you, Giotto?"

"Ten," he said. "I think."

She did not seem to mind his little comment in the back, and she continued to ask, "Do you know why I am here?"

"... No," After faltering for a moment, he added, "Only if you tell me."

Her face melted into a knowing smile, and her feet slowly climbed the rocks. Giotto did not back away, and sensing his calmness and rationality, Aberto no longer barked. It obediently sat there, guarding over the child, lest the woman starts to do something funny.

She stepped closer to him, her hand reaching out towards him. He knew he should be avoiding her, yet she has an unexplainable air of friendliness that curiously reminded him of his own _madre_ , who was one of the most trustworthy people the child ever knew in his life.

He could trust her, he finally decided. Squeezing his eyes shut, he stood there, and the shaman faintly smiled. Her index finger pressed against Giotto's forehead, and softly, she chanted a language the boy did not recognize. A dim glow emitted from the tip of her finger a moment later, a delightful smile spreading across her face.

"Unbelievable," remarked the shaman.

"Sorry?" Giotto inquired.

"This," she said while distancing her finger away from the boy. He watched in awe at the sight of an orange flame, blazing on her finger. Aberto, on the other hand, was tumbling down the rocks in his surprise, its barks unheard in its shock. Meanwhile, Giotto's eyes were fixated on the erratic flame.

It was something peculiarly intimate to him, and he had this feeling of longing, or perhaps protection, for the flame.

An otherworldly connection with it.

"How did you do that?" The boy asked while making a mental note inside his head that Sepira is not human.

"I didn't do it," The flame died away the moment she said it. "You did."

And as if on cue, flames spurted out from the middle of Giotto's forehead. They overflow controllably, startling the boy who was unable to understand the phenomenon that was happening to him. He made short gasps of horror, his hands wanting to extinguish the flames, but its heat deterred his attempts.

"W-What?" He sputtered, carefully glancing over the rocky edges, staring at his reflection in the water. He assured himself that his eyes were playing tricks on him, but the clear, crystalline orange flame that was seeming leaking out of his forehead like a waterfall was enough evidence. It was some wild animal inside of him was going nuts.

"Did you do something?" He turned around and demanded. "Why is my head burning?"

"Your head isn't burning," Sepira mused at his comical reaction. "I simply coax the flames that are already inside of you."

"Flames?" As if in response to his question, the fire continued to spill out in unstable amounts, and Giotto was trying his best to keep his calm and keep that flame calm. Fortunately, the flame did not felt hot on his head, and he could temporarily not worry for his life.

"To be more accurate, Dying Will Flames. It's a high-density form of energy that can only be refined and manifested from one's life force," Sepira explained. "No human beings in existence have ever seen one before, so I understand that you're probably disturbed by your situation."

"Then why can I see it?" Giotto said warily, his eyes rolling upwards, barely seeing the edges of the orange flame that have become slightly more reserved than before. "And why is it on my head?"

She clutched the orange pacifier around her neck. "The Tri-ni-sette has chosen you."

"I don't quite understand," said Giotto, who appeared even more confused.

"You don't have to," assured Sepira. "At least for now. The rings are not yet ready."

And Giotto was even more thrown off than before. His head was going in circles, trying to connect whatever Sepira had been saying, to no avail. She read his mind, and she gently held onto his hand, eyes gazing into his deep orange orbs.

"You are not ready yet, either." She noted, her whole body gleaming with an orange aura. "Your flames shall be sealed until the time is ripe. And when that time comes, the flames will tell you what to do."

Her body glowed even brighter, and the boy could feel the flames - his flames - going quieter, its output gradually lowering. The heat was also dissipating quicker than expected, and Giotto could feel his whole body being wrapped by the mysterious aura emitted by the woman.

"Wait, who are you?" Giotto asked, befuddled, while the flame on his forehead finally died away, the boy reverting to his normal state. "What am I? What do these flames do? What is this Tri-ni-Sette you are talking about?"

Sepira's face was filled with mirth at the sight of the child's reactions. She could not blame him. The world is never totally for human comprehension.

"You will know in the future," She said, hands releasing their grasp on his. He looked at her skeptically for a second, but his Hyper Intuition did not detect any lies. Aberto was not making any fuss out of it either. In fact, the dog had been uncharacteristically quiet and obedient in the last few minutes.

"Okay," Giotto pursed his lips. "I still don't get any of this, but... I'll trust you."

"Thank you, Giotto," said Sepira with a sincere smile. The Sky pacifier too shone just a little, almost as if it was saying its thanks to the boy.

"I'm afraid I have to leave soon," Sepira said as she glanced towards the tree. "It has been a pleasure talking to you."

Giotto nodded his head. "Likewise, I suppose."

She flashed him another smile before descending down the rocks and walking back towards where she came from.

"One last thing before I forget," Sepira stopped in her tracks and turned around, cloak billowing behind her. "Here's a small piece of advice for you, Giotto."

The boy gulped nervously, wondering what will the non-human say to him. Hopefully something not too elaborate or convoluting.

"Follow your heart."

He paused for a second, and finally gave a tentative nod of the head. Sepira kindly bid her farewell, her figure soon camouflaging into the multitude of trees. Giotto stared at the greenery for a long while, his mind still trying to register what happened. He gave an exasperated gasp, glancing over at Aberto, who looked at him curiously.

"That was weird," concluded the boy as he hopped down the rocks. "Let's go home, we had enough for a day."

Aberto barked in approval, bounding after the boy who meandered along the edge of the river that led back to the outskirts of Leggero. Little did the duo knew, Sepira was still watching them from behind the trees, blended within the tresses of leaves and bark. Tuono stood next to her, fidgeting as he tried to avoid the bugs that fell onto him from the treetops.

"Boss, what's so special about that boy?"

"Everything," Sepira answered. "Never in my whole life have I seen a sky flame so crystal clear."

"Honestly, Boss, you need to stop speaking in riddles," Tuono said, exasperated. "What is this flame you are talking about?"

The shaman glanced at her right-hand man, bemused. She then merely gave him a mysterious giggle before she turned around and headed towards where the carriage was waiting for them. Though his question went unanswered, the man said nothing and followed the woman. He knew that his boss hid many secrets, and no one knows when she will ever speak of them. Not that he minds it in particular.

"So Boss, shall we return home, properly for once?" He said.

"Yes, of course." The shaman agreed, her head looking up at the sky.

Its uncertainty seemed to only have grown bigger.

* * *

G could feel his whole body numbing, his head blanking out every now and then since three days ago. The adrenaline, the pressure, the blood.

He could feel his hands stained beyond recognition.

He quickened his pace, walking past the many adults that roamed the streets. He broke into a run, blood pumping to his legs, blood rushing to his head, blood staining his hands.

"Hey, red-head, watch it!" An unkind voice yelled, and he was knocked off his feet. He stood up, barely gaining back his balance, and there, he saw a pair of eyes staring at him mockingly.

"Kid, why don't you pay up for bumping into me?" The teenager spoke brusquely, his palm slamming straight into the wall behind G. The older boy smirked, knowing that this trick always worked at scaring the younger kids.

Until the fiery red eyes of the child before him looked up at him, his piercing glare like that of daggers, of hurricanes. It was a fearsome red, almost bloodied, and full of intimidation like an out-of-control tornado. The older boy was instantly made aware that he had peed his pants.

"N-Nevermind," He murmured. "I-I'm in a good mood today, s-so consider yourself l-lucky!"

G watched the boy sidle away like a frightened mouse. He turned, ready to leave, but the small gap next to him caught his attention.

He stood before it, the winds from inside blowing at him.

A gap that led into the alleys.

A gap that led into the darkness.

His eyes dimmed, his gaze fixated at the darkness. He glanced at his hands. Hands that are stained.

G, at the point in time, considered himself both lucky and unlucky. He was nearly killed at five. He killed at ten. If anything, the darkness participated like some sort of parasite in his life, both as an audience and as an instigator. He frowned, aware that he was afraid, and that his face was probably reflecting his current cowardly emotions.

"Well, that's one boring expression you're having now, Rossi."

The boy's head shot up, towards the direction of where the voice came from. He spun around, perturbed, wondering if he was hearing voices.

"Here,"

G looked straight ahead, going stunned the moment his eyes met with another's that was lurking in the darkness. Then he could not breathe, he could not move and he could feel his spirit slowly crushed inside out. It is a familiar feeling, he realized. The feeling of bloodlust directed at him. The feeling of being on the side of getting killed.

"Seems like your body remembers," The man in the shadows cooed. "Not as bad as I thought you are."

"Who are you?" G said carefully as he bent down to pick a stone, ready to fight back at a moment's notice.

" _Lezione uno_ ," the man continued, disregarding G's question, and suddenly, he disappeared. The boy froze, his eyes darting around to find the man.

A click sounded from behind him, and G's feet were immediately rooted to the ground.

"One must know their own limits before they engage the enemy." The calm, almost lethargic voice said from behind.

"You...," G muttered, the fear in his chest rising when the memories from that night came flooding into his head. "You're that gunman."

"Hitman," corrected the man.

"You're from the Nero _Famiglia_ ," G breathed. "And you knew my father."

"Yes, and yes." Laughed the man as he faked an applause. "Zero points for stating the obvious."

"Why are you here?" G hissed. "If you're here to kill me, you're five years too early."

"Five years?" The man wondered out loud. "Oh, that silly little claim I said? Hitmen don't really care when they kill."

The gun's muzzle was pressed against G's ear, sending a shiver down the boy's spine.

"We care that we kill, and that's it," The man whispered, and he then pulled the muzzle away from the boy. "Speaking about that, how's that friend of yours?"

G felt his hair standing on ends, and spinning around, he glared straight at the man, not caring whether if he was scared, or that he will probably be killed for defying this terrifying man before him.

"Don't you dare touch him."

The man, who was incredibly tall, had a pointed face, narrow grey eyes, long messy black hair that was tied into a crude ponytail. He broke into a grin seconds later, eyes still full of sarcasm and a mix of delight and disappointment.

" _Lezione due_ ," The man slurred. "Before going in for the kill, one must have a desire to kill." He quirked a dissatisfied brow. "You do have a desire, though not quite what I'm searching for, but it'll suffice."

"Wha-?"

"Are you keeping mental notes in your head, Rossi?" The man snapped. "I hope you'd at least get that brain from your father."

"I'd use it only you can make some sense in your words,"

The man's grin only grew wider. "Smart mouth you have there, don't you?"

"What do you want?" G repeated, annoyed. He really did not like how the man was just here toying with him. In return, Severo sighed. He should really rethink his decision of coming here to teach the skills of a marksman to this scrawny, red-haired boy.

"To tutor you," Severo announced blandly. "If there's anything redeeming about your pitiful existence, it is the fact that you have an overwhelming potential to be a hitman."

"I... don't want to kill people." G muttered, fear divulging in his gaze. Severo merely spared the boy a disinterested glance as he sat onto the crate that was lying on the side, hand playing with his gun as if it was a toy.

" _Lezione tre_ ," The hitman lazily droned, his half-lidded eyes looking at G with a knowing gaze. "Kill or be killed."

The boy felt the moisture leaving his lips, his red eyes widening. This man knew that G has already experienced the cruel nature of this world.

"You don't have a choice," The hitman said, standing up and he twirled his gun once.

"Yes, I do." G gritted his teeth. Severo chortled out loud, his amusement reverberating at the entrance of the alley.

"You don't seem to get it, do you, Rossi?" He snickered, his gun once again pointing towards the young child, whose face became even whiter. "I am the second-in-command of the Nero _Famiglia_ , and the reason why this town of light has not been razed to the ground is that I ordered the men not to."

The muzzle was pushed right at G's neck, and the boy could feel the cold metal against his neck, the sensation chilling and utterly blood-curdling. His sweat slowly rolled down as he tried to take in a deep breath. This hitman was not joking.

"And you said you did not want to kill people, but tell me, child," Severo said as he pressed the gun against the boy's carotid artery. "Haven't you already killed someone?"

G felt his heart rate increasing, the organ going wild with its palpitation, and his pupils dilated.

"You think you are afraid, a child like you, so afraid of killing a person. But you are wrong." Severo lowered himself and stared at the boy eye-to-eye. "Tell me, did you hesitate even a little bit when you pulled the trigger?"

G wanted to scream, to say something, yet he found himself devoid of any retorts, of any denials.

"You pulled the trigger, and you're afraid. But you're not afraid of pulling it again." Severo said smoothly while G's entire body was shaking with trepidation. "You are afraid of becoming violent. You are afraid of the darkness. You are afraid of being rejected."

"No... no...," G muttered, his fists clenched. "That's... not true."

"You are a storm, but you are rejecting it."

"No... Shut up...,"

"A violent storm, that's what you are."

"I said, shut up!" screamed the boy, his teary eyes glaring straight at the hitman. Severo gave him a smug look, and it was then did G realized that the man had been taunting him. He knew that he won't be able to get out of this. He only had one road to walk, one choice to choose.

"Fine," G huffed. "I'll be your student, you can tutor me and do whatever you want with me. Just don't touch Giotto and the town!"

"Non," Severo said as he shook his index finger side to side. "I can't have you become my student with such a half-baked reason. My objective is to make you interesting, to become a challenge for me to kill, and so I need you to have motivation."

The hitman smiled at the boy, a cunning glint in his eyes.

"Why don't we make that friend of yours to be your motivation?"

"What?" shouted G. "What has Giotto got to do with any of this?"

"He has everything to do with this. Tell me, do you want him to experience the same thing you did? To kill a person?"

G's eyes widened as Giotto's smiling face flashed past his mind. The sky, that is still not yet tainted like he is.

"The world isn't all flowers and rainbows. Sooner or later, even that boy will have to face it. He will have to kill to survive."

G instantly fell silent, his eyes gazing at the dirt path, pupils shaking.

"Now do you get it?"

The boy took in a deep breath, fist clenched. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes."

"Good, meet me outside the first street tomorrow in the morning,"

His polished shoes started clapping against the ground, the hitman ready to leave the alley.

" _Signor_ ,"

The hitman glanced back at the boy, his tall figure standing in the dark.

"What should I call you?"

At that moment, G witnessed a hint of sadness in the man's eyes. That trace of tears that was so subtle, so mysterious, and soon it disappeared, causing the boy to wonder if he was seeing things.

"Severo," the hitman finally answered with a small smile. "Just Severo."

* * *

"I'm home," Giotto called out as he closed the front door behind him, with Aberto already running wild in the house. His mother soon emerged from her bedroom in her wheelchair, her pristine eyes greeting him.

"Welcome home, darling,"

" _Mamma_ ," Giotto smiled kindly at his mother, rushing over to push her wheelchair over to the dining table.

"Where do you have there?" Camilla asked when she noticed the bulging pockets of her son's pants.

"Herbs, _mamma_ ," Giotto said. "I found them near the river outside the town." He brought out a fistful of herbs from his pockets and beamed at his mother. "Now _mamma_ don't need to cough so much."

Camilla smiled warmly and softly patted the boy's golden hair affectionately. "Thank you, Giotto."

"Will _papà_ be late today as well?" Giotto then asked. "Is the shipyard man still making him work at night?"

" _Papà_ will come home soon," Camilla answered. "Don't worry."

The boy said nothing for a while, and Camilla pursed her lips. She was aware of how perceptive her son is, and it was not hard for him to see through lies.

"Okay," her son said, but she knew that the boy was lying. He knows. The boy knows that for the skirmish between the mafia and the townspeople, his _padre_ was to work twice as hard to repay the damages. In the end, none of the authorities took responsibility, and everything was pushed onto the townspeople, and Lorenzo had stepped up to bear the brunt of it.

She knows that Giotto felt responsible for it.

As much as her son can see through lies, the boy himself is not a good liar either.

" _Mamma_ , has G come home?" The boy then asked. Since five days ago, G had been coming home during the wee hours of the night, and while the family assumed that the boy needed more time to sort out his emotions, the frequent occurrence of his disappearance did not lessen their worry for the child.

"No," Camilla shook her head somberly. "Not yet."

"I'll go find him." Giotto closed his pockets and headed for the door. "I won't take long."

"Be careful,"

"Mmm," Giotto uttered in reply and he swung the door shut. Camilla stared at the door for a long while before her face paled, and hunching over, she coughed.

She lifted her head, eyes dimming as she looked at the blood on her palms.

And carefully, she washed it off.

* * *

He found him sooner than he thought.

G was sitting there, at the edge of the river banks, his figure mildly lit up by the lazy street lights. He was still, his red hair whipping around from the town winds, head gazing down towards the dark, murky river.

Giotto noticed the cuts and bruises that had increased from yesterday. He should not pry, but the presence of those wounds was bothering him. Those were not wounds cause by fighting, but by something else.

"You're here," the boy said without turning.

"G," Giotto answered, going up to his friend and sat next to him, tucking his legs between the fences. "Where were you?"

"None of your business," G murmured, his eyes not looking at Giotto's.

"What have you been doing this past week? _Mamma_ and _papà_ , they're worried."

"It's none of their business."

"G!"

His friend did not respond, and he merely turned his head away, red hair obscuring his face. Perhaps out of guilt. Perhaps, something else.

Giotto tugged at G's sleeves, the soft lapping of the waters seeming rising in volume.

"What did that man do to you?"

G sighed. "I can't hide anything from you, can I?"

Giotto only grabbed his sleeve tighter than ever. " _Signor_ Bartolomeo told me. Said that you've been tagging along with a stranger. What happened?"

"I wasn't tagging along," G breathed.

"Then what is it?" Giotto demanded. "Why are you with that man who tried to kill us?"

Finally, this time did G turned his neck around, eyes round with surprise. "You knew?"

"I saw him," Giotto replied. "Why... are you with him, G?"

The red-haired boy gripped onto the metal fence, teeth biting down onto his lower lip. He did not want to say it. Not now, at least.

The storm looked at his sky, the conflicting decisions inside him fighting each other and he knitted his brows while remaining silent.

"I won't force you," Giotto said, his grip on G's sleeve loosening. "So please, don't make that face."

G nodded, his tense shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

"Is it something dangerous?"

"... You could say that."

Giotto leaned closer to his friend, eyes filled with concern. "Please, can't I share your burden, somehow?" He urged. G involuntarily stayed still, as Giotto's eyes met his. Those orange orbs seemed to shine even more in the dim lighting of the night.

Eyes that liberated him all those years ago.

"No," He whispered. "No."

"G?"

"Protecting you is not a burden!" The red-haired boy yelled, and hands wrapping around Giotto's fist, G steeled himself. He brought his friend's fist to his forehead while praying fervently inside his head, his teeth gritted, his knuckles going white.

He prayed that these hands will not be tainted.

He prayed that his eyes will not be blinded.

"You've always... always," G choked. "Saved me, accepted me, protected me. For the past five years, you have been beside me, unconditionally."

"I don't wish for anything, Giotto. I don't wish for anything but for you to be safe, to stay as you are. Simply because you are my savior and the best friend I could ever hope to have. You are not someone who can be tied down by this town, by anyone. Severo is right. One day, you will have to pick up a gun, to kill a person, to see blood."

G then turned his head upwards, frightened eyes staring right at Giotto. "Like I did."

"G...," Giotto said, his other free hand clasping onto G's. "I'm prepared for that."

"Yes, you are." G replied through clenched jaws. "I know very well that you are prepared for anything. You will be prepared to kill. But Giotto," The boy's hand then released his friend's hand. "You can only kill to protect others."

"That's...,"

"You can never kill to survive for yourself. Because it is you, Giotto." G said firmly. "And that is what I'm afraid of. That you will forsake your own life for the sake of others. You did that for me once, and you are ready to do that for the town."

Giotto found himself tongue-tied. He could not retort. Because G was right.

"If you will kill to protect the weak, then I will kill to protect you."

G retracted his legs from the fence, standing up and reaching to his full height. Backlit by the streetlights, he looked at his friend, determined and unrelenting. And just slightly, the sky's uncertainty was dissipating, and Giotto looked at G with an almost relieved expression.

"So I will get stronger, I will have that man make me stronger," G placed his palm over his chest. "Strong enough for me to be continuously at the heart of the attack, and be the Storm that never rests."

* * *

 **Some Italian definitions (courtesy of Google Translate)**

 _Lezione uno/due/tre_ \- Lesson one/two/three


	6. Chapter 6: Cozart Simon

Cozart Simon

The sky, with its usual blue hue, enveloped Leggero like a blanket, and the young boy walked down the streets unhurriedly. He has a firm stride, a straight back, and he dons a clean grey vest and slacks, a beret on his head and a small shoulder bag slung across his chest. Leggero is a nice town, he thinks. Although he was temporarily staying at the next town, he likes to visit Leggero every other day.

But of course, his parents will not be pleased once they hear about his frequent trips to this town.

For one thing, Leggero is a _mafiosi_ -infested place. Corruption, violence and anything related to the mafia is synonyms to Leggero. The notorious Nero _Famiglia_ made this place their turf, and the lack of order made it easy for outlaws to lurk about and churn out trouble. For another, like it or not, he is still the son of the lord of his hometown. Someday he'll take over his father's job, and while he is not quite keen on the idea, there is little he could do.

He strolled over to the Townsquare, where most of the stores are closed, and business was booming with silence. The increasing number of outlaws in Leggero only seek to cripple the lives of the townspeople, and to be honest, the boy was aware that it should have fallen a long time ago.

But something was preventing from doing so, like the last stand of sorts, and occasionally when he sees one of the townspeople, he notices a fire in their eyes that screamed to the world that in this town of corruption and violence, they will not yield.

He wonders what were they holding on to. The desire to survive? Or is it pride?

Withholding these thoughts, he walked over to one of the few stores that were open. Peering into the interior, the store was cold and quiet, with nothing displayed on the shelves, suggesting the lack of an owner but the boy knew otherwise. He pushed the handle of the door at the entrance, a small bell ringing the moment he entered.

" _Signor_ Lovino?" He called out. His voice echoed in the deserted store, and he waited.

Sure enough, a door at the corner of the store creaked open, and a pair of sunken eyes peeked through the gap in apprehension. Those eyes widened with relief, and the door swung open, revealing a man with a skinny, malnourished frame. He wore large horn-rimmed glasses and a faded outfit that consisted of a simple shirt and pants.

"Good morning _signor_ ," the boy greeted politely. "I was wondering if you have any books I could rent today." He fished out the thick leather-bound book that he had rented yesterday. "I probably should not have read this one in one sitting."

The man suddenly beamed, his lips turning up into an enthusiastic smile on his gaunt face, which looked pitiful instead when one gazes at his thin arms that took over the book from the boy.

"This is a good one, isn't it?" The man grinned. "I couldn't resist it either. Hold on, I'll go to the back and find that other one I've been wanting to introduce you to."

Evidently, the only thing driving this man's smile was his passion for books. Lovino turned and returned to the back of the store, closing and locking the door out of habit. The boy patiently waited, and soon, the bookkeeper emerged with another book in hand. The book was rather frayed in its pages, its cover already fading in color.

"Ah, it's in quite the state, isn't it?" Lovino chuckled. "Though I can't blame Giotto for flipping the pages back and forth. The story is just that good."

"Giotto?" The boy's ears perked up from the familiarity of the name. He had seen the name neatly written in cursive in most of the books he had rented so far, and he had often wonder who those books had once belonged to.

"He donated most of his books four years ago," Lovino sighed. "When this sad case of a store was still a library."

"A library?" The boy exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Things have changed. After that raid four years ago, our town has been rapidly overrun by all those outlaws. The lord is useless, and so is the government. The Nero _Famiglia_ does their business as they please, although they have not actually made a second raid again. Well, they did not have a need too." The bookkeeper explained. "Even if we have defended ourselves from that attack four years ago, they have overtaken the town all the same."

"But it could have been worse," A young voice chirped while the bright sound of bells rang.

The customer spun around, while Lovino revealed a look of worry. A boy around the age of ten had come from the entrance of the store. The boy was shorter than he was, yet his hollow-cheeked appearance and frizzy brown hair betrayed the innocent air around him. The older boy was starting to feel guilty to be the only one who looks healthy among the three of them. Regardless, he nodded a greeting towards the little boy, who then returned a soft hello.

"Paolo!" Lovino cried out. "You shouldn't be outside! What if-"

"Relax, _papà_." The boy chirruped. "I made sure to run as fast as I could. I came to deliver your lunch."

Setting the basket he brought on the counter, he fished out a meager piece of bread no bigger than the size of one's palm. Lovino took the bread over gratefully before he looked at his son with concern. "Do your siblings have enough?"

"No worries _papà_ ," assured the boy, "Besides, we should answer this big brother over here."

"Ah," Lovino gasped, realizing that he had nearly forgotten that he still has a customer.

The boy smiled and carried on with the previous conversation. "What do you mean by it could have been worse?"

"If we did not prepare ourselves for the mafia raid, many of us would have died. In fact, our library is one of the first few places that would have received the damage, and I might not even be here if not for Giotto's help." The bookkeeper said as he shuddered a little.

"Even so, with the outlaws running about, I could no longer run my former business," Lovino added, clenching his fists. "It pains me, but I had to convert the library to a book rental store in order to earn a penny or two. Although I have little to no customers. No one has the time to read these days." The man lamented.

"Well, you have me." The boy said as he handed one thousand lire to Lovino. "This is for the book from yesterday."

"Ah, thank you for your patronage," Lovino said as he received the coins. "And here's your next book."

The boy took the book and carefully placed it into his bag, lest he further frays the pages away before he could even read a single sentence.

"You know, you remind me a little of Giotto." Lovino suddenly said, while his son went to the back of the store, presumably to arrange the books, for the rustle of pages and tapping of wood could be heard.

"Me?" The boy said in surprise.

"Giotto loves to read too. I did say I have little to no customers, didn't I? Giotto is one of them, although it's funny how he still insists to rent the books even though most of them were once his." Lovino chuckled. "Though I suppose it is his own way of helping us."

"I see," the boy nodded in approval. Meanwhile, Paolo came out from the back of the store, his hair becoming messier than before, bits of dust caught between the short strands.

"I'm done _papà_ ," the young boy said. "Though the dust is still horrendous, I did what I could."

"Thank you," Lovino said as he tousled his son's messy hair. "Hey, sonny, won't you do me a favor by sending my son home for me?"

"I'm old enough to walk back on my own!" Paolo said indignantly.

"I'm not letting you walk alone like what you did when you came here," Lovino said firmly. "You're still a kid. You'll never know what those outlaws will do if you meet one. Please," The bookkeeper turned towards his customer, "I'll even let you rent that book for half the rate."

"I'll send him home," the older boy agreed. "But there's no need for half the rate, _signor_."

"Thank you," The bookkeeper said with much gratitude. "Now there, be polite and thank this big brother over here, Paolo."

"Thank you, um," Paolo squeaked. "What's your name, _signor_?"

The older boy grinned and removed his beret, revealing his crimson red hair, and then he bowed slightly as he introduced himself.

"Cozart Simon, at your service."

* * *

"You're not from Leggero, are you?"

They were halfway through the trip back to the Lovino house, and fortunately, they have not yet encountered any outlaws, and it was then when Paolo popped the question.

"No," Cozart nodded. "I'm here visiting my aunt who lives in the next town."

"Huh," Paolo quirked a brow. "Then why did you walk all the way here to borrow a book? The next town should have a library."

"It does, but I've read all of the books there." Cozart reasoned. "Besides, I quite like your father's store. Most of the books I've rented were much to my tastes."

Paolo's cheeks glowed from his comment. "I guess you will have to thank Giotto then,"

"I guess," Cozart agreed with a hearty laugh. "I'd like to meet this Giotto you and your father have been talking about."

"Oh, that's a fine idea!" Paolo agreed. "I'm sure the two of you will get along well." He paused and then continued with a grin. "Though Giotto pretty much gets along with anyone I know."

"I'll look forward to seeing him if we ever get the chance," Cozart said.

"You'll probably will, sooner or later," Paolo said while consciously flattening his unruly hair with his hands. "He and G patrol the town every other day."

"Voluntarily?" Cozart inquired.

"Voluntarily." affirmed the younger boy. "They have a strong sense of justice, especially Giotto. He was the one who prevented the mafia raid from doing any real damage."

Cozart widened his eyes, impressed. "They're like vigilantes."

" _Sì_ ," Paolo smiled proudly. "But let's stop talking about them. Let's talk about you, _signor_."

"Sure," Cozart agreed with a smile.

"I've been wondering for a while, but where are you from?"

Cozart scratched his chin, his eyes stealing a glance at the boy who was staring at him with round, curious green eyes.

"Syracuse," he gulped nervously, his eyes looking away.

"You're an awful liar," Paolo deadpanned, eyes rolling. "Simply awful."

"You don't need to tell me twice," Cozart murmured, embarrassed.

"Let's try this again," Paolo said. "Where are you _really_ from, _signor_ Simon?"

"... Manarola." He finally answered feebly.

"Oh," Paolo's smile disappeared. "You must be rather well-off."

"No, no, I'm not." Cozart denied, his hands waving frantically.

"Your eyes are looking away, you know."

Cozart pursed his lips, furiously berating himself in his head. It's not his fault that he has been told to be foolishly honest since he was born.

"Well, yes, I am." He finally sighed. "But that's all. I do not have any real achievements that can justify the wealth I possess."

Paolo watched him carefully, and Cozart firmly gazed at him in return, looking very sure of himself.

"You know, you don't need to be so considerate. I don't really mind whether you're wealthy or not." Paolo assured. "You were willing to help my _papà_ out, and to walk here from the next town to rent our books." The corners of his lips rose as he bounded up to the doorsteps. "Thank you for sending me home."

Cozart smiled as he held his beret to his chest and did a small bow towards the child.

"My pleasure,"

After bidding the ten-year-old goodbye, Cozart was ready to leave in the opposite direction until a small cry could be heard from within the house, causing him to stop in his tracks.

" _Fratello_ , I'm hungry," a suppressed cry came, and Cozart turned around, surprised.

"Hush, Luca," Paolo's voice called out softly. "I'm sure there's still some cheese left in the shed."

"There's none, _fratello_. We've searched, and they're all gone."

"We're hungry, _fratello_."

The cries continued, and unable to continue to hear it any longer, Cozart ran off, hugging the book tightly, upset at his own cowardice.

* * *

" _Zia_ ," Cozart shouted as he opened the door. "I'm home."

He scanned around the spacious living quarters of his aunt's home, and he searched around for her, not finding the familiar figure of his aunt knitting at the sitting room, nor baking in her kitchen.

He then checked the time on the grandfather clock in the living room, noting that it was two hours past noon. His aunt was probably taking a nap, and with that in mind, he quietly went back to the guest room where he was staying at temporarily since a month ago.

Sitting comfortably on his bed, he eagerly and carefully took out the book he had rented today, his fingers running across the leather cover. He flipped it open and was politely greeted by a short line of familiar handwriting.

 _To whomever this may concern, I thank you for renting this book._

 _\- Giotto_

An appreciative smile unfolded itself on Cozart's lips, and as always, he started his journey into the story. He sunk inside its world, navigating through its pages like a well-trained sailor, and savoring every bit of the author's poetic writing. He felt time going faster than usual, and as always with Giotto's books, he finished this book in one sitting, and by the time he absorbed that last letter of the last word, it was dark outside.

Looking over at the door to his room, he noticed the meal his aunt had prepared and placed. Clearly, he had been so absorbed in his reading that he had forgotten about dinner.

Ready to end his reading session, he flipped to the end, just to spy a small phrase scribbled at the edge of the last page:

 _To help is to save a little of a person's soul, no matter how small the deed._

Cozart's eyes reread the same line again, and while he reckoned that Giotto probably wrote this as an afterthought after finishing the story, somehow, the boy felt that he was saying something else.

He slid out of his bed and carried his dinner over to the study table. Looking at the full plate of food that was slowly losing its heat, he was suddenly reminded of _signor_ Lovino's bony arms, his smile that was not in any way losing to his circumstances. The thought of Paolo and his younger siblings in their home, without a morsel of food, however, ached his heart.

After he finished his dinner, he stared at the empty plate, his face blurrily reflected back at him. He has this urge rising in his chest, a fervent desire to help the bookkeeper and his family, in any way.

And so, the next morning, he got out of bed earlier than usual, earning a shocked look from his aunt, for the boy had the habit of sleeping in till ten in the morning. He bid her goodbye, arms holding tight onto the book, as he heads towards the town of light.

He sees a handful of outlaws staring at him like hawks the moment he stepped foot into the lawless town, and he nervously increased his pace, one hand in his pockets to protect the small pouch stuffed within. Cozart is not exactly the bravest fourteen-year-old around, and he knew better than to make eye contact with any of these people while he is walking alone while carrying a handful of coins with him.

Yesterday may have been lucky for both him and Paolo, but today is different. Today, he has a purpose. And having a purpose makes him all the more worried and afraid. He wondered how Paolo must have felt when he ran alone on the street to deliver his father's lunch to the bookstore, and somehow, he felt much courageous than before.

Panting, he finally reached his destination. He was before Paolo's house, and without making a sound, he went to the back of the tiny building, to the stout, rundown shed hidden behind. He took a tentative glance into the shed, and tightening the strings of the pouch, he then tossed it in without a glance and left as quickly he had come.

* * *

The scraping of leather against rock whispered within the cave while the non-human walked inwards, a cane in hand, and a lavish suit worn on his body. He did not bother to bring his tall hat this time, for there was no need to complete his disguise. In fact, he had forgotten which was the disguise, with or without the hat. His many personas over his life have blurred his sensibility over his own identity, and to the average human, it would have crippled one's existence. Yet, it did not matter to him. Even the name Zechariah did not matter to him. He was a superior creature, capable of stabilizing the world's balance. Identity and names were something trivial.

He stared ahead at the dark and inky darkness. He was deep down the earth, away from the elements he was used to. No rain, sun nor storm. Everything around him belonged to the earth, and despite how powerful he is, there was little he could do beneath the ground. He was susceptible to the Earth's mystical strength, and yet he was here, powerless.

One could say he was doing it out of agitation, indignance, or both. Perhaps a little out of desperation, but he refuses to admit his personal feelings into this matter. He was here to fulfill his duty, his purpose of existence.

Yes, to stabilize the world.

Ever since Sepira's grim announcement of her impending passing, he went on a quest. A quest to find a substitute that can support the stones' powers, instead of having humans to take over it. He may have agreed to Sepira's plan, but he was inherently a skeptical being. He still did not trust humans, and to ease his mind, he strived to search for something that he can use, just in case that other weaker species screwed up in their job.

And that something was the singular power that the earth emanates. The power that causes the occurrences of natural phenomenons. He does not know exactly what he will find during his search, but Zechariah willingly headed off towards the center of the earth: a cave that leads down to the very core of the planet. With his powers negated by the earth's own energy, he could only go downwards by the most unfashionable way possible: Walking for four straight years.

It would have been an arduous journey for the normal human, deadly, in fact. But this was nothing to the non-human. His biological makeup was nothing short of inhumane, and perhaps close to being an immortal. There is a reason why he is able to live much longer than his fellow members of the same species.

He could sense the earth's energy pulsating like a heartbeat all the while, and the sound of it increased in volume with every step he took. Finally, he stopped, the shockwaves that are constantly emitted by the core were at their maximum strength, which was enough to grind a person's body into dust all the way till their bones. Even the non-human was struggling to stand his ground, body trembling uncontrollably. The core had no physical shape, but Zechariah could sense that he was right at the edge of it.

All it took, was one more step, and he instantly knew he had entered the forbidden place known as the earth's core.

It was immensely violent, like a high-powered engine with limitless energy, and Zechariah could feel even his immortal body being slowly attacked by the fearsome might of the core. He had to hurry, and reaching an arm out, he concentrated. If releasing the seven flames was as easy as breathing to him above the surface, trying to do so a few thousand miles under the earth's surface was like forcing a fish to climb a tree. He could feel pain, for the first time, his life force being sucked out, but he gritted his teeth, determined to utilize whatever residual power he has inside him.

It took an excruciating long while and a great deal of effort, and finally, his body lit up with seven colors of the rainbow, flames erupting.

"Now," Zechariah yelled. "You shall show me what you hide."

A bright flash of light exploded, and suddenly, the non-human was blasted away by an unwelcoming force, sending him a few feet away. He picked himself up, dusted himself, and found his flames gone like a candle blown out. At first glance, he thought it was a failure.

Until he finds seven stones of seven different colors before him, each the size of a palm, all laid out haphazardly on the ground before him. They were all irregularly shaped, the surfaces rough and unpolished. Their colors were strange and brownish, ranging from reddish-brown to an ochre yellow.

He crouched down, fingers inching closer to the stones, cautious. And when his finger merely poked at the reddish-brown stone, a strong force dragged him towards the earth's core. A spark of reddish flames erupted, but Zechariah retracted his finger immediately, preventing anything else from happening.

Gravity, he realized.

Still holding doubts, he reached out towards the dark green stone, and immediately, hot leaves with the edges of diamond sliced towards him like a tornado, but he deftly dodged it.

The light blue stone shot off a flurry of ice shards, with one freezing part of his ear.

The ochre yellow stone blew up a strong gust of sand, and Zechariah negated it with his own rain flames.

The greenish-brown stone had murky, viscous flames that gave off a pungent smell, in which Zechariah was quick to associate it with one thing, a swamp.

The dirt-colored stone released mounds of earth, all tiny but firm like rocks. The flames were magma-like, its hotness like nothing before. But all it did to Zechariah's skin were repeated stings, with no real damage done.

And the last one was of a greyish silver, and when touched, sharp rocks arced out of the ground, cutting out a piece of the non-human's flesh. Yet he was unperturbed, for strings of muscle crisscrossed immediately, his high-speed regeneration not as much letting him drip a drop of his blood.

He stared at the seven stones, and slowly, he lit up the Seven Flames of the Sky, and as if meeting an old friend, the rocks burst into their respective flames enthusiastically.

Zechariah smiled. This may not be exactly what he had expected, but it did not lessen his anticipation of what these rocks were capable of. There was little doubt within his eyes what power these rocks held.

The Seven Flames of the Earth.

* * *

"Hey, you there!"

Cozart flinched, still jittery after his act of charity, and fearful of the idea that one of the outlaws lurking in the alleys has finally come for him. He walked on while praying that he was not the target.

"You with the red hair," the clear voice shouted again, this time coupled with brisk footsteps, and Cozart inwardly groaned. His head peered behind his back, nervous, but ready to face whoever called out to him.

"You dropped your wallet," the person said. "We found it in Paolo's storage room."

The boy was young, perhaps around his age. He was even around the same height as him, and his spiky golden hair reflected the morning sun's rays. A tall teenager with long wine-red hair and a permanent scowl walked alongside him, looking protective. But Cozart was more concerned about the maroon pouch in the blond's hand.

"Ah...," He trailed off, rather disappointed at the apparent failure of his deed. "That's too bad...,"

"I dropped it on purpose," Cozart continued. "I couldn't stand to watch Paolo and his family starve to death."

The two boys widened their eyes, and they exchanged glances. The blond then smiled and turn back to look at Cozart straight in the eyes. His eyes were of deep orange, so firm and sharp then Cozart was stunned for a second.

 _They look familiar._

"I see, I'm sorry about that. But there's no need to worry about Paolo's family." The blond said with a smile. "We dropped the food we bought inside Paolo's storage room too."

Cozart rose his eyebrows in surprise before a grin stretched across his face.

"Haha," He broke out into a laugh. "You too?"

"Yeah," the blond grinned, and Cozart let out a sigh of relief, glad that there was someone with the same sentiments as him. The thought of the happy expressions on the Lovino children brought a comforting smile to his face.

"I'm Cozart Simon," the crimson-haired boy said. "I'm here visiting my aunt."

The blond returned him a knowing look. "I've heard of the Simon family from my grandfather."

Cozart blinked, surprised that his family name was known even in this small town. The blond beamed at Cozart, and pointing to the tall guy behind him, he said, "This is my companion, G,"

He then stretched out his hand towards Cozart.

"I'm Giotto," he introduced calmly.

Cozart broke into a wide grin, his eyes twinkling with excitement. So this is Giotto. The boy whose books have brought him here before him.

The pride of the town of light.

He firmly gripped Giotto's hand in return, tipping his beret with his other free hand.

"Nice to meet you, Giotto."

* * *

 **Some Italian definitions (courtesy of Google Translate)**

 _Zia_ \- aunt

 _Sì_ \- yes

 _fratello_ \- brother


	7. Chapter 7: Vigilante

Vigilante

"I simply love Alessandro Manzoni's works," the boy walking next to him said, his eyes sparkling with child-like glee, and Giotto could not help but to grin in return. Cozart's silly smile is infectious.

It was just five days ago when he and G first met Cozart, and things have somehow progressed to the point that the crimson-haired boy is joining their daily patrols around the town, which usually occurs after G and himself finished helping out his father with his portering work.

"Manzoni's works are just the best," Cozart sighed again.

"Especially his work _Adelchi_ ," Giotto piped in.

"Oh, yes!" Cozart bubbled excitedly. " _Il Conte di Carmagnola_ is also one of my favorites."

"And _Il trionfo della libertà_ ," Giotto joined him in his excitement, and Cozart nodded enthusiastically.

Though Cozart is a rather unexpected fellow, Giotto has honestly never found someone he could relate to so well. He never felt so at ease talking to someone else other than G, and to share his love for reading so strongly with another other than his _madre_. While G himself reads, his childhood friend is more interested in the math and sciences, so Giotto never really had the chance to gush about his favorite authors or books to anyone. Cozart is the first, and Giotto has never been more delighted to have met someone like him.

His new friend and himself were patrolling the streets alone today, for G was gone for the day. While Cozart was clueless on the whereabouts of the tall boy, Giotto was aware that G had gone to find the hitman.

"Hey," A hand waved before him. "Hey, hey, hey."

Giotto looked up, cut off from his thoughts, and Cozart was looking at him with concern.

"Oh, s-sorry," he hurriedly apologized. "Just a little distracted."

"Clearly," Cozart laughed. He stretched his arms and folded them behind his head. "Does G disappear often?"

Giotto stared at Cozart incredulously, surprised that the boy had immediately deduced his thoughts. He sighed in return and nodded his head. "I don't really know what to do, he always goes off doing who knows what and comes home with blisters and bruises. And don't even get me started when I found a gun under his bed."

"A gun?" Cozart murmured, stunned. "What exactly is he doing?"

"I have no idea," Giotto said morosely. "He says he wants to be stronger, but...," he trailed off, eyes looking down onto the ground.

Cozart pursed his lips. "Well, I don't blame you for worrying, but you've been with him for quite some time, haven't you?"

"Nine years," Giotto nodded.

"Well, then place nine years worth of trust on him," Cozart said. "He probably knows what he's doing."

"Maybe," Giotto frowned. "I mean, I trust him. But, I...,"

He clenched his fists, memories of that day coming back to him. The blood, the man whose head was blasted with a hole.

G.

"I don't want him to hurt anyone," he gritted his teeth, gasping. "Much less to get hurt himself."

* * *

Standing parallel to his shooting arm, he stretched his arm out straight and steadied it, the gun muzzle aiming towards the old, round target that was slapped onto the sandbag around forty feet away.

Severo stood leaning against the wall, his narrow eyes staring at the boy, whose pupils were dilating, his index finger ready to push down on the trigger.

The crack of the pistol could be heard at the next second and a hole was drilled through the red dot of the target and the sandbag, the latter deflating immediately as its contents came spilling out. The wall behind the sandbag crumbled slightly, the bullet buried within the brick.

Silence followed, and G dared not look at the hitman in the eye. The boy was sure it was a perfect shot, but after four years of training under Severo, who knows what kind of criticism the strict man can churn out with his mouth.

Instead, the hitman reached into his coat, and G froze, not knowing what to expect.

But when he saw the glint in Severo's eyes that peeked out from the shadow of his hat, his muscles moved on their own, blood rushing to his head and in a split second, he was pointing his own pistol towards the hitman, who himself had just taken out a gun.

The savage bloodlust his teacher emitted dissipated the next second, and the hitman said nothing, merely smirking and putting his gun back into his coat's inner pocket.

"That's it for today,"

And G was left there standing at the same spot, his gun still raised, jaw-dropped and wondering whatever that meant. Severo has never ended training early before. Never.

"He's... kidding," he breathed. "Isn't he?"

It was after a moment of respite did he finally relax and push his pistol back into its holster. He still did not get what Severo meant, if, he meant anything at all.

Easing his breathing, he headed out of the abandoned alley, soon reaching a dilapidated street. The place was pretty much in ruins, and the rubble made the whole area akin to a lost maze, but G was already used to this place and knew it like the back of his hand, for he has been training here ever since four years ago. It was an abandoned town, two and a half miles from Leggero, with only one building intact, and the rest was falling apart.

He walked the usual way out, hopping across the debris, and made his way back to Leggero as he always did.

About half an hour later, G arrived at the town's gates and was about to enter the town when he noticed a whole group prowling beyond the gate, all of them glaring at him with hungry eyes.

A teenager stepped out, and G narrowed his eyes in disdain. The outlaw has a full head of dark hair swept to the back, crooked teeth and a scar on his forehead, his purple eyes directing hatred towards G.

Sighing exasperatedly, G merely returned the teenager a tired expression. Irked by his indifference, the outlaw took out his knife and waved it threateningly towards G. The red-head merely shot him a mean glare, and the outlaw backstepped, intimidated.

G clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Bringing a couple more of your goons with you won't do much, Igor."

"Shut up, Guglielmo!" Igor spat. "I'll make you pay for what you did last time!"

"Pay?" G scowled. "When you and your gang tried to trash Bartolomeo's bar?"

"You broke my arm!" Yelled Igor, whose old injury throbbed the moment he said it. "Say all you want, _coglione_! But by the end of this, you will beg me for mercy!"

The outlaws then charged towards G, who pushed his right leg back, bent his knees and readied himself. The first one that came rushing to him with a knife howled and G dodged the weapon, a few strands of his red hair cut off. G followed up with a punch right at the man's face, knocking him out, and the first attacker fell backward into a disgraceful heap.

The red-head easily caught hold of the unconscious man's knife with his right hand and slashed at the second attacker's forearm, who screamed as blood spurted out from the wound. The second attacker released his grip on his club, in which G grabbed hold of with his left hand and used it to land a solid hit onto the guy's forehead. The third came in from the back, and without turning, G swung his arm backward, neatly ramming his elbow into the man's throat. The poor man choked, landing on his bum while he coughed violently.

Meanwhile, G threw the knife sideways, which stabbed into the thigh of another attacker, earning a yell and a grovel to the ground. He then thrust the club towards the fourth right at his belly, knocking the wind out of him.

Two others lunged towards him, swinging their fists down, but G deftly skipped backward, avoiding their attacks and swiftly banging their skulls towards each other, the force instantly rendering them senseless.

The eighth one started screaming like a madman, both arms raised and he brought down a pickaxe towards G's head from behind, who parried with his left arm and used his right hand to grab his assailant by the collar and swing him onto the ground.

By then, the remaining men froze, all watching their fellow gang members flat on the ground, blood splatters scattered around, groans and whimpers going on and off. Their faces were pale with fright while G was unfazed by all of this, the teenager merely wiping away a drop of blood on his face that did not belong to him.

"So?" He growled. "Any more takers?"

The question was unneeded, for the rest bolted, all screaming bloody murder and mercy. Igor stood there, knees shaking, eyes still fixated on G, who coldly stared back at him.

"Ha... haha," Igor laughed weakly. "I-I expected this."

But G ignored his attempt at faux bravado and walked past him without casting as much as a glance at the outlaw. Igor bit down his lip, furious, and opened his mouth to spew out a string of vulgarities, the teenager still holding onto his remaining courage.

"One more move, and you won't get away with just a broken arm."

Igor's jaw went slack, none of the planned words coming out and his knife dropped onto the ground with a clatter. He could not move even a muscle and his breathing was strangled by the oppressive emitted by the red-haired teenager.

It was until G had gone a distance away, did the tension finally release inside of him, and the outlaw fell to his knees, gasping.

Killing intent.

Yes, that was it.

"Kuh...," he hissed, face red with anger.

The outlaw punched the ground repeatedly with hatred, disgust, and violent thoughts swirling inside of him. His arm throbbed yet again, and he cursed the red-head again and again out loud, the echoes reverberating back to him.

"I'll remember this, Guglielmo," He muttered under his breath. "Mark my words, one day, I will make you bow before me."

* * *

When Giotto arrived home, he found his _padre_ resting his head on the dining table, taking a snooze after an exhausting day at work. The boy tip-toed his way into the bedroom, bringing out a blanket and placing it over his _padre_ 's back. When he peered over his _padre_ 's shoulders, he noticed the letter placed on the table. The familiar handwriting of his grandfather adorned the letter, and while it was addressed to his _padre_ , curiosity won over and Giotto carefully took the letter.

 _Lorenzo, my son,_

 _With regards to your letter, I fully empathize with your concerns. However, you should understand that you have long lost your status as part of the Adelardi family. It will be difficult to allow all of you to relocate back to Manarola, especially with your madre and fratelli already antagonizing you and Camilla. It is tough enough as it is for me to send you money every month._

 _However, what I can do for you is to allow Giotto to come over. I can bring him into the household under the relationship of an adoptive grandson, which he is rightfully so. This can be a difficult and heartbreaking decision for you, but I urge you to consider it, for the safety of your son._

 _It will be a stretch for me to accept Guglielmo into the household, considering the affiliation of the Rossi family with the mafia. I will try to work my way around it, but the chances of your madre agreeing to this decision are small. I apologize for my inability to truly help you out, Lorenzo._

 _I pray for Camilla's recovery and hope to hear from you soon._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Conte Adelardi of Riomaggiore_

Giotto felt his blood going cold, his eyes rereading the letter, again and again, almost forgetting to breathe.

He was well aware of his _padre_ 's background. The eldest son of the Adelardi family, the ruling aristocrats of the town of Riomaggiore, who eloped with a poor, unknown songstress. That was his _padre_ , Lorenzo Adelardi. Scorned by the upper class, and living far away from Riomaggiore in a town that is falling apart.

But him, going to Riomaggiore to live with the aristocrats? Without his parents and G?

And the town. Despite how messed up it is, it is still his town. His home.

He shook his head vehemently. No, he will never agree to this. Never. Not when his _madre_ is bed-ridden with her illness, nor when his _padre_ is slaving away every day at the warehouses.

He left the letter back to where it was and headed off into his and G's bedroom. He dived straight into his bed and hid under the covers, upset and confused. Worries and rejection spun in his head, and it was the creaking of the door that finally broke him away from his thoughts.

"Training, again?" Giotto murmured from underneath the covers.

"Yeah," G replied while climbing into his own bed. Giotto peeked out and saw his roommate slapping on ointment on his arm and rubbing the calluses on his hands.

"This is not caused by fighting," G interjected, glancing at Giotto.

"So you fought."

G gulped. "Yes," He admitted begrudgingly. "But it was Igor who wanted it."

"Figures," Giotto said, covering himself with his blanket again. G glanced over and let out a sigh.

"It's the letter, isn't it?"

"You read it?"

"I just happened to read a few lines, like what you did," G said as he stuffed his gun discretely underneath the mattress. "Do you want to go? To Riomaggiore?"

Giotto practically flew out, emerging from underneath the covers and he shouted, "Of course not!"

He held back a breath, suddenly remembering that his _padre_ was just outside, sleeping. He then continued with a soft voice, "I will never leave this place, without you or my parents."

"But how are you going to convince your _padre_?" G said, lying flat on his back, as a cooling sensation spread across the arm covered with ointment. "For one thing, Leggero is-"

"Dying? I know about that, G, I know," Giotto gasped. "But I don't want to just leave and give up on this town. Bartolomeo, Dante, the Lovino children, the porters at the warehouses," He clenched his teeth, vexed at himself, at his circumstances and powerlessness. He wanted power, the power to protect, and the lack of it frustrates him so much.

"All I want is to protect their happiness,"

Giotto then fell silent, and G watched his best friend slowly retreating under the covers, like a turtle. He made no sound afterward, in which G assumed that his friend was too tired to say anything else.

The red-head then reached towards his empty gun holster, eyes narrowing as he contemplated.

"Just do what you want, Giotto," G then said softly. "I'll always be behind your back."

* * *

The unrelenting rain seemed to collapse upon Leggero, torrents of water gushing out from the clouds. Giotto had been patrolling around the town alone when the rain came down unannounced, forcing him to run toward an abandoned store. The rusty bell at the entrance tinkled dully the moment he dashed in, and he flicked off as much water as he could off himself, the cold and depressing rain dampening his spirits.

"Hey," A familiar voice said. "Did you get caught in the rain too?"

Giotto spun around, surprised to see Cozart inside the store, his hair wet and flat against his head while a huge grin was drawn across his face. It has been a few weeks since he last saw his friend, and he sprung a joyous hug onto Cozart. Though it has only been half a year since he had met Cozart, and the two of them were already as close as brothers. Giotto appreciated Cozart's company very much, and seeing him was something worthwhile in the middle of the rain.

"Where were you?" Giotto asked after pulling away from the embrace. He had been worried sick about Cozart ever since his friend's sudden departure from the town. There was no prior notice, only a simple note delivered to his house that said "leaving for a while", and Giotto was definitely not happy with that unannounced goodbye.

"I had a little something going on back at home," Cozart said ruefully.

"Your _padre_ again?" Giotto asked, concerned.

Cozart nodded in reply, "I can't blame him for worrying, but I would appreciate it greatly if he will just refrain from sticking his nose into my affairs so often."

"Being the son of a lord can be tough, huh," Giotto commented lightly.

"Don't remind me," Cozart sighed. "I had to write out a few essays to convince him that I still have not lost my touch at my academics, as well as to let me stay with my aunt for a while longer."

Giotto laughed, bemused at his friend's problems. "So I'll assume you'll be staying here for quite some time?"

"You bet," Cozart flashed a cheeky smile. "I still have quite a number of books here left to read." His expression then changed to that of annoyance. "Too bad it started raining right after I arrived here. And _signor_ Lovino is out. And, I'm soaked throughout."

"Unlucky, aren't you?"

"Say for yourself," Cozart retorted, earning a sheepish laugh from Giotto. "Were you patrolling?"

"Yes,"

"How's G?"

"He's patrolling another part of the town,"

"What about training?"

Giotto shook his head and explained, "Apparently, that teacher of his has stopped contacting him for a while."

"Did something happened?" Cozart asked, a frown sitting on his brow.

"I'm not sure," Giotto said grimly. "G's been restless, but neither of us knows what happened to that hitman."

"Well, I'm sure that-"

The entrance of the store burst open, the sound of the rain from outside rushing forth, interrupting Cozart, and the two boys jumped, startled by the visitor. Giotto then gasped, seeing G standing there, his tall frame leaning against the door, hand gripping the door handle tightly. He was wet from tip to toe, water dripping down from his hair, his shoes a shade darker due to the water.

"G!" Giotto exclaimed. The tall boy shuffled in, still panting, and his eyes widening with surprise when he saw Cozart.

"Co... zart?" G gasped in between breaths.

"Heya, G." Cozart grinned. "We were just talking about you."

"Well... it's been a long time- wait, this is not what I came for!" His expression changed to that of agitation, and he turned towards Giotto, who immediately sensed that something has gone wrong.

" _Signora_ Fiore's store got attacked by some outlaws." G hurriedly reported. "And...," He gasped for air. "Franco's injured."

"Franco!?" Giotto cried out, shocked.

"You mean, the florist's son?" Cozart asked, and G nodded his head quickly.

"We need to hurry," Giotto said urgently, and without further ado, the three boys dashed through the curtains of rain.

As they made their way towards the florist, the rain started to let down, slowly turning into a small shower, and the trio ran faster than before.

When they reached the florist, Giotto watched in horror at the damage done to the store: shattered flower pots, leaves, and flowers fallen over, mounds of soil scattered around the floor. The signboard was barely hanging on the edge of the door, the beams knocked down, and the display shelves were decimated. And in the middle of the destruction, the Fiore children were bawling their eyes out, while their mother crouched over her eldest son, sobbing. The local blacksmith Matteo knelt next to Franco, whose eyes were closed, a small pool of blood diluted by the rain lying beneath his head.

"How's Franco's condition?" Giotto shouted as he hurried over.

"... Not good...," Matteo said dismally. "Doctors were threatened by those people and didn't show up,"

"Why Franco has gotten into this?" Giotto said, his clenched fists turning white.

"He was helping me out with the store when those ruffians came and demanded ninety percent off for the goods...," the florist explained, tears streaming down her face. "... We shouldn't have refused them."

The florist rubbed away her tears, while Cozart tried to stopped the bleeding from Franco's head, with Matteo and G assisting at the side. Giotto, on the other hand, was unmoving, his heart thumping angrily, in tune with his lost and irate emotions inside him.

"No...," he began, his orange eyes filled with fury and sadness. "It's no one's fault. If anything, it's because... this town is a paradise for outlaws. They...," he heaved. "Threaten the townspeople and take money away, and if we don't do what they say, they'll just resort to violence. We can no longer rely on the police since they have given in a long time ago."

G bit down his lower lip, unable to say anything to comfort the distraught Giotto, who bent down and picked up a single flower stalk, fingers shaking. The blacksmith and florist made no response, for they were unable to muster any. Cozart went up and embraced the children, whose sobs and sniffles were deafening. None of them could say anything, for it has been the harsh truth for the last five years.

"I love this town," Giotto cried out as tears threatened to fall out. "It may be a poor town, but it shines like the sun, and it's the smiles on everyone's faces that I have grown to love since young,"

His eyes shifted to the unconscious Franco, the distressed florist, the crying children. All the pent up frustration and hate immediately rose up inside of him, and he swung his pale fist against the brick wall. The petals of the flower stalk held within his other hand drooped.

He was so, so furious at himself, at all those people who have been destroying his home bit by bit. His scrapped hand was started to bleed and hurt, but the blond could not care less. The pain this town has been suffering from was a million times worse than a bruise.

Giotto was sure that if the mafiosi, the stupid government had not wrecked the town to this extent, they would be happy. His madre would not be stuck to her bed, his padre would not be working at the warehouses till midnight.

Everyone would have been happy.

His parents would have been happy.

He... would have been happy.

"Just shutting up and watching the town falling into ruin!" He yelled. "I had enough already!"

The sound of rain followed, G and Cozart staying silent. Even the children stopped crying, surprised at Giotto's outburst of anger. Seeing that the trio needed some time alone, Matteo carefully lifted Franco up and said, "I'll bring Franco to the back to rest."

"Come, children," the florist called out softly, and the kids scuttled over to the back of the store, leaving G, Cozart, and Giotto outside, amidst the broken flowers and the drizzles of water.

None of them said nothing for a while, and Giotto tried to calm himself down. There was no point getting all worked up here. Yet, he can't do anything else other than getting angry-

"A vigilante group, Giotto."

Giotto looked up, eyes blinking at confusion at Cozart, who was looking down onto the ground pensively.

"A-A vigilante... group...?" Giotto said hesitantly, not understanding what Cozart was trying to say. His friend gazed up and stared at him directly in the eye, his vermillion eyes looking firm.

"If no one will help us, we must save this town by ourselves," Cozart enunciated. "However, in order to do so, we need a powerful leader who can manage people. A leader like a sky that can wrap up rain, storm and even the sun,"

Cozart then stood up, standing face to face to the blond. The sun shyly peeked out of the rain clouds, and Giotto held his breath as Cozart raised an arm, and time seemed to slow down. The red-head pointed his index finger straight towards Giotto, whose eyes widened in surprise.

"There's no one else, but you, Giotto!"

* * *

 **Some Italian definitions (courtesy of Google Translate):**

 _Il Conte di Carmagnola -_ Count of Carmagnola

 _Il trionfo della libertà -_ The Triumph of Freedom

 _coglione -_ assh*le

 _Conte -_ Count (noble title)

 **Man, it feels so good to finish writing this chapter, since it contains the key scene of Cozart encouraging Giotto to create the vigilante group that will eventually become the Vongola Famiglia. Well, I've planned a few exciting stuff for future chapters, so please do look forward to them!**

 **Thank you for reading thus far, and do send in reviews/PM on what aspects of the story I can improve on! :D**


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